


The Werekitten Chronicles

by Whisky (whiskyrunner)



Series: Pavlov's Bell [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/pseuds/Whisky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This wasn't going to happen originally, but it came up enough in the comments over at LJ that I made a poll, out of curiosity. Imagine my surprise when 300+ people I didn't even know were reading voted yes on Prop Werekittens!</p>
<p>Obviously this involves some mpreg, but not a lot. Mostly it's just lots of babies and stupid amounts of fluff, if you can handle that.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't going to happen originally, but it came up enough in the comments over at LJ that I made a poll, out of curiosity. Imagine my surprise when 300+ people I didn't even know were reading voted yes on Prop Werekittens!
> 
> Obviously this involves some mpreg, but not a lot. Mostly it's just lots of babies and stupid amounts of fluff, if you can handle that.

“Interesting,” says Dr. Forsyth, examining Arthur's tail, yet again. “Mm. Yes. Fascinating.”

Arthur, scowling, resists the urge to snatch his tail out of the man's hands. Eames clears his throat and says quickly, “Have you ever seen anyone like Arthur before?”

“Mm. Once,” says Dr. Forsyth, blinking beadily behind his glasses. He straightens up. “Twenty years ago or so. He was very old and sick. Told me his species would die with him.” He blinks at Arthur. “Evidently not.”

Arthur's tail slinks out of the doctor's reach, and Arthur now has to bite back the urge to snap at him. He isn't being very helpful. Eames swears by this doctor, though, saying his family have been treating werewolves for generations. His bedside manner isn't all there, but he's incredibly good at what he does.

“Funny, though,” Dr. Forsyth says, as if just remembering. “That man had a second set of ears, as well. Feline. Yes.”

He studies Arthur's hair like he expects eartips to be poking out. Arthur scowls.

“I don't have those,” he says. “Cosmetic surgery.”

“Ah.” This seems to make perfect sense to the old man. “I see.”

He turns away and starts tidying up his equipment, thermometers and a blood pressure meter and things. Eames deflates at Arthur's side.

“So you don't know what's wrong with him, then,” he says.

“I never said that, did I?” says Dr. Forsyth sharply. He turns around, lips pursed, and looks remarkably like a turtle. “Of course I know what's wrong with him. He's expecting.”

 

+

At home, Arthur curls up in bed, lying on his side.

He doesn't feel pregnant. He feels very angry and very exhausted. Mostly angry, though.

After a long time, during which he lies there glaring at the wall, he hears a sound behind him. At once he turns over with a hiss, muscles tensed to strike, but Eames is standing out of his reach, at the edge of the other side of the bed.

He holds up both hands, conciliatory.

“Are you going to throw something at me again if I come to bed?” he asks slowly, softly.

Arthur glares at him. Then, eventually, he drops his gaze and rolls over again so that his back is to Eames.

At once he feels the bed dip under Eames' weight and then his partner is there, a warm solid mass at his back, curving his body to fit Arthur's. His arm slides over Arthur's belly, clasping him tight, and he nuzzles the nape of Arthur's neck while pressing kisses there. Adoration seeps off of him. Arthur could turn around, lightning-quick, and attack, and Eames doesn't care. He just wants to be close to Arthur.

“Sorry for shouting,” Arthur mumbles, giving up. He's too tired to sustain this degree of anger. Eames nuzzles him again, humming softly.

“That's okay.”

It's not okay, Arthur realizes. His reaction had been—maybe not out of proportion, given the circumstances, but irrational, yes. He'd yelled at Eames, thrown things, even struck him on the chest, as if hurting the man he loves could make this better.

And Eames—Eames had not yelled back. Eames had not told Arthur he was being irrational. He'd ducked whatever Arthur threw, and winced when Arthur hit him, even though it couldn't have hurt him, not that much—Eames is strong, and Arthur hadn't been aiming to hurt, only to lash out mindlessly. He hadn't grabbed Arthur and told him to stop, or avoided the blow, even though he surely saw it coming.

He'd weathered all of Arthur's rage, just standing there and taking it until Arthur exhausted himself and stormed off to bed. It's not a very Eames reaction. It's one of the things Arthur loves about him, that he can give as good as he gets, an important trait when one is dealing with somebody as abrasive as Arthur. For him to just take it like that—

Well, nothing about this situation is normal. But Arthur thinks he can guess at the reason.

Eames proves him correct.

“I'll take care of you,” he murmurs. “I'll take care of everything. Don't you worry.”

“I'm not a delicate flower, Eames,” Arthur says flatly.

“I know you aren't,” Eames replies, “just ... please. Let me take care of you, for once.”

Arthur twists around in his arms, eyes blazing again.

“I don't want children, Eames,” he hisses. “I have never wanted children. And now I'm playing host organism to multiple mutants because _you_ didn't realize this could happen. I don't want to be taken care of. I want them gone.”

There's real hurt in Eames' eyes, and it momentarily shocks Arthur. He didn't expect that.

And then, as suddenly as it appeared, it's gone.

“Anything you want,” Eames vows softly.

But in that second, all of a sudden, Arthur doesn't know what he wants.

 

+

“Don't drive so fast,” Eames admonishes.

“I'm not even going the speed limit,” Arthur points out.

“I know. Just,” Eames says, staring fixedly at the other cars on the road. “It's not you I'm worried about, it's all the other crazies out there.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Eames' protectiveness is as endearing as it is exasperating. Given his way, he'd probably pick Arthur up and carry him all the way to Dr. Forsyth's office, shielding him from all the lunatics who might unexpectedly whip out a knife and stab Arthur in the stomach. Despite Arthur's repeated insistence that he isn't delicate—he's not even _showing_ , for goodness' sake—Eames has shifted into protective mate gear and doesn't seem liable to budge. It's how he's wired.

He seems to have hit upon a powerful nesting instinct, too. Suddenly their flat isn't sunny enough, their bedsheets not a high enough thread count. Eames is attacking their flat with a fervor, as desperate to make it hospitable as if they've been living in a cave together for the past year and a half, and nothing is too good for his Arthur. No more can Arthur hope to find a single non-organic product in their fridge, because Eames can't abide the thought of him ingesting all those chemicals.

“I just want you to be comfortable,” he says, the stress written plainly all over his face when he comes home dragging a brand new mattress behind him.

Eames' caretaking instincts are so bewildering that Arthur's anger melts in the face of it. He can't bring himself to feel resentful anymore. It's been two weeks since Dr. Forsyth dropped the bomb and he can't make up his mind. He doesn't know what he wants to do.

Dr. Forsyth makes that decision for him, as soon as he pronounces Arthur healthy.

“Have you given any thought to how soon you'd like the procedure done?” he asks, his tone brisk and businesslike. Arthur and Eames exchange a glance.

“What procedure?” Eames asks guardedly.

“The termination, of course.” Looking up, Dr. Forsyth spots the expression on Eames' face and snorts. “What, you didn't think he'd bring the young to term, did you? Of course not. We have to get them out. By now we should be able to tell where on the abdominal wall the placentae are attached. I thought I mentioned this last visit. Did I not?”

“No,” says Eames quietly.

“Oh. Well, it ought to be common sense anyway. You're a male,” Dr. Forsyth says, addressing Arthur now. “You have no uterus. No uterus means no endometrium for a placenta to attach itself to. No endometrium means cutting the placenta out of you. Although I suppose I shouldn't be talking about common sense to two people who thought a creature with a heat cycle couldn't get pregnant ...”

“What if we did that?” Arthur cuts him off, rather than look at Eames' face. “I mean, took them out, when they're ready to be delivered?” It sounds like a C-section, really, and it's still not like he's resigned himself to this, but—

“It would cause a massive bleed,” says Dr. Forsyth simply. “And with multiples you would almost certainly die.”

Eames flinches visibly at Arthur's side.

“Oh,” says Arthur.

“So you see.” Dr. Forsyth peels the latex gloves off his hands and drops them in the bin, businesslike as ever. He smiles grimly. “The sooner, the better.”

Eames reaches down and squeezes Arthur's hand silently.

 

+

The drive home is very quiet.

“I'm so sorry,” Eames says, once they're home safe and the door is shut behind them. Arthur turns, surprised. “I know you didn't ask for this. And I—I know you don't want children, so. It's for the best, really.”

He looks lost, standing in the middle of their flat and staring round like he doesn't even know where he is. He can't meet Arthur's eyes. He looks helplessly at the floor.

“I'm sorry I put you through this,” he says. “I wish I had... I'll call the doctor back. We can schedule something as soon as possible. I won't take any jobs, we can give you lots of time to recover from the surgery, and I'll stay right here, and I'll take care of you ...”

“Eames,” Arthur says, moving to stand in front of him. “Eames,” he says again, when Eames doesn't tear his gaze away from the floor. He looks up, and there's a stark, raw fear in his eyes that tells Arthur that he's still shaken by the knowledge that this thing could end up killing him.

But under that fear, there's a desperate sense of loss.

“Hey,” Arthur says softly, taking both his hands. Eames looks down at their joined hands, and it's like he's ashamed that he can't be the strong one, right now, but that's why they work so well. One of them is always there to catch the other should he fall.

Arthur takes a deep breath.

“How good of a friend do you think Ariadne is?” he asks carefully.

Eames' eyes widen. Arthur has just a moment to register this before he's pulled into the tightest hug of his entire life.

 

+

"You. What?" Ariadne is staring at them. "You want me to what?"

"Sorry," Arthur says abruptly, and he escapes to her bathroom.

"You're the only person we could ask," he hears Eames explain apologetically outside the bathroom door, through the sound of his puking into the toilet. "Since you know us both, and it being so ... complicated."

"We'll pay you," Arthur gasps out, spitting into the toilet, when he thinks he's done.

"I could make loads of money doing architecture jobs in the same time period!"

"We'll pay you _a lot_ ," Eames amends.

Ariadne is still staring. "It's not that I'm not flattered, you guys, and it's not even that I haven't thought about you asking me to do something like this for you at some point, it's just ... all kind of a little sudden, you know? In my imagination there was discussion, and planning, and time to prepare--"

A sickeningly fruity fragrance finds its way into Arthur's nostrils and he's puking again before he can even say a word. "Eames," he rasps between retches.

Eames, because he is wonderful, enters the bathroom and removes the shampoo promptly. Ariadne stares some more.

They wait until Arthur has stopped heaving into the toilet bowl and is just gagging, and then Eames turns to Ariadne.

"It's our only chance," he says quietly. "Please."

"But," Ariadne says, "couldn't you ..."

"It was a shot in a million to begin with," Arthur says in exhaustion, still hunched over the toilet. "It won't happen again. The doctor's going to make sure of that. _I'm_ going to make sure."

"I ... oh," says Ariadne. Then, quieter, "Oh."

"Please, Ariadne," Eames says desperately.

"Okay," she says. "Fine. We'll try it. I'll be your ... mutant kitten-baby surrogate person. I guess."

Eames gives her a tight hug, twirling around with her. Arthur heaves into the toilet again.

 

+

The time it takes for them to go to Paris and talk to Ariadne and give her a week or so to prepare herself and costs them. Dr. Forsyth gives them a severely disapproving look when they show up for the surgery.

"We could have gotten this over and done with nice and quick," he complains. "Now I'll have to rip the tissue right out of you."

Eames blanches.

"I'll be _fine_ ," Arthur tells him firmly. Dr. Forsyth can hack away at Arthur's insides all he wants, as far as Arthur is concerned. He just wants to not be pregnant anymore. It's only been a few months and he's sick of the cramps, the stupid sudden craving for hot dogs, the constant throwing up. He won't miss these fetuses once they're out of him. And besides, for all that the man has no bedside manner whatsoever, it's still obvious that Dr. Forsyth is a skilled physician who knows what he's doing. Arthur trusts him not to botch this.

Eames, however, for whatever reason -- possibly because of Arthur's scentable change in hormones -- is still a fifteen on the one-to-ten scale of protectiveness. He looks about ready to deck the nurse who comes to fetch Arthur.

"I'll be _fine_ ," Arthur says one last time, giving him a quick kiss. Eames watches him and Ariadne go, looking pained.

He's right there when Arthur starts to wake up after the surgery. He feels -- different. Sore, too. Dr. Forsyth removed not only the embryos, but also fixed whatever it was inside Arthur that enabled him to get knocked up. Arthur hadn't really been listening; the only thing that registered was that he wouldn't get pregnant again and _no more heat cycles_. It was like Christmas.

As soon as he wakes up Eames is on him, squeezing him gingerly.

"You're alright," he breathes. "You made it. You're okay."

"Of course I'm alright," Arthur says, grumpy and drowsy. Eames nuzzles him fiercely, and Arthur twitches. "Are you _crying?_ "

"No," Eames snuffles into his neck. Then, in a manly fashion, he buries his face under Arthur's jaw.

Ariadne recovers in the same room as Arthur, though she takes a little longer to wake. Dr. Forsyth checks on her while she recovers.

"When will we know if it worked?" Eames asks, hovering at his shoulder anxiously.

"How should I know?" Dr. Forsyth says irritably. "That's why we're going to keep checking. It's good that there were multiples. Hopefully at least one of the embryos will attach."

"Wait," Ariadne says groggily. "Multiples?"

"Didn't we tell you?" says Eames.

"I hate you both so much," she says.

 

+

Even after he's no longer pregnant, Arthur still _feels_ pregnant. It's as if the universe is punishing him for cheating his way out of pregnancy. The sickness stops, fortunately, but he still gets cramps; he still has random cravings.

At least it gives Eames something to do, and one of his new favourite pastimes, no less: doting on Arthur. It doesn't matter that Arthur's hormones are all over the map and he moodswings like a grizzly bear. Eames is happy to serve his every need. Fortunately, it isn't too difficult to persuade him to go and dote on Ariadne, instead.

She takes a pregnancy test after the embryo transfer and it turns out positive. They all celebrate, though to Arthur it feels rather like a prison sentence. He's surprised at how rapidly Ariadne warms up to the little bundle (or bundles) of joy inside her.

It's mainly due to the near-constant cramps that Arthur starts working from home and stops taking jobs in the field. This means he hasn't dreamt in several months, and as a result, he starts dreaming naturally again. And that rapidly turns into a recurring nightmare wherein he's holding his and Eames' baby and he drops it. Then Eames shouts at him that it'll never be a werewolf now, and he leaves Arthur there with the baby, and no matter how hard he tries, Arthur can't pick it up off the floor; he just keeps dropping it. Because he's a terrible father and doesn't know the first thing about holding babies.

At night he lies awake and wonders how on earth this became his life.

When he finally confesses his anxieties to Eames, Eames is quick to sign them up for a baby parenting class. Arthur tries to go into it with an open mind. Tries.

"This is stupid," he scowls, trying to put a diaper on a robotic doll baby with soulless staring eyes. "How is this in any way a realistic simulation? A real baby would be moving."

"I think the point is that we learn to do the diaper bit first so we can do it when the baby is squirming around," Eames points out fairly.

"Well, I did it." Arthur thrusts the be-diapered doll at Eames. "Your turn."

"Support its head, Arthur!" Eames reproaches him, when the robot doll starts to scream.

Arthur misses his pre-robot doll baby life.

 

+

Toward the latter months of the ordeal, Arthur is crippled by cramps and virtually confined to his bed. Now he allows Eames to take care of him. He doesn't have much choice. And Eames takes his duties very seriously.

He's forced to divide his time between Arthur and Ariadne, though, and if Arthur's body is hurting at the mere memory of what was growing inside him, he can't imagine the kind of discomfort Ariadne is in.

Dr. Forsyth's daughter Susanne lives in New York, where she works as a part-time physician to werewolves, just like her father and his father before him. Arthur and Eames pay for her flight to Paris to do every one of Ariadne's obstetrician appointments, since they want a specialist, and Ariadne wants a female. Dr. Susanne has her father's prodigious skill and a lot more bedside manner. They ask her to do the ultrasounds, even though she isn't an ultrasound technician -- "In case of ... oddities," Eames explains.

"Three heartbeats," she pronounces on her first visit, and, smiling, pats Ariadne's leg. "Congratulations. You're carrying a litter."

Eames always looks forward to the ultrasounds, firstly because he loves seeing their offspring, alive and moving around on the screen, and secondly because he's waiting to find evidence that they might look like Arthur.

"What if they take after you?" he says in bed at night, while Arthur is trying to read a magazine.

"Then they take after me," Arthur growls, not interested in talking about it.

"Little tails and everything," Eames says, barely listening. "They'll be adorable." He sighs. "I suppose we'd have to put little hats on them or something, though. I don't want people teasing my babies."

"They'll get used to it." Arthur flips a page, his shoulders tense. "I did."

Eames sits up and kisses him.

At their next visit with Dr. Susanne, she peers at the ultrasound and says, "Looks like you've got three boys here."

"Three boys?" Arthur echoes.

"Or -- wait--" She pauses, confused, and moves closer to the screen. Eames joins her. "It almost looks like--"

"Tails?" Eames says.

At once Arthur is there, staring at the screen. He raises a hand to the grainy spot on the screen where Dr. Susanne is pointing, and softly brushes his fingertips over it.

"They've got tails?" Ariadne says, sitting up on her elbows to see.

"Looks like," says Dr. Susanne, bemused but smiling.

"Smashing," says Eames. Arthur touches the screen again, not quite sure what he's feeling.

 

+

Cramps aside, Arthur is fairly detached from the entire pregnancy process. When Ariadne goes into full-blown labour at thirty-one weeks, almost two months early, reality hits him like a sledgehammer.

Dr. Susanne arrives at the hospital in Paris when Ariadne's contractions are less than thirty seconds apart. She flies in and takes over swiftly and efficiently and Arthur keeps thinking numbly, _oh, God, this is actually happening_. It somehow never felt real until now, not even when he looks at the ultrasound picture Eames taped to their fridge. He wants to puke.

"Okay, honey," Dr. Susanne coaches Ariadne. Eames is standing at her bedside, holding her hand, letting her squeeze it through every crippling contraction. "The first baby's in a good birthing position, so we're going to start pushing in a minute and see how it goes."

Arthur can't take it. He leaves the room.

"Arthur!"

Eames catches him up down the hall.

"Where are you going?" he asks, confused. "They could be born any minute ..."

"I don't want them," Arthur says.

Eames stops short. "How can you--"

"You heard me!" Arthur snaps. His voice trembles as he continues aggressively, "I don't want them, I never wanted them, and I _tried_ to tell you that, I tried. I can't be a parent. I don't know anything about kids."

Eames' concerned face softens. "Arthur, of course you can be a parent. Nobody knows what they're doing."

"You do!" Arthur shouts. "You know everything, you've known everything from the start, you're the one who wants them so bad--"

"Calm down," Eames says gently, even though the hospital workers who occasionally bustle past them are too hurried to care what they're saying.

"How can you love them so much?" Arthur demands shakily. "They're not even born yet and you love them more than anything."

"I love _you_ more than anything," says Eames. "And they came from you, that's how I already love them. I loved them when they were the size of rice grains, because they're yours."

"Keep them," Arthur spits out. "Don't you do any research, don't you know multiples have a higher rate of stillbirth -- and they're too early, something will go wrong--"

"Arthur, don't let the idea that something _might_ happen to them keep you from loving them," Eames admonishes. "That's why you're so upset, isn't it? You're afraid to love them in case something bad happens."

"Because I can't be a good parent!" Arthur says, desperately willing Eames to understand and give him permission to walk away. "I can't. They'll--"

He chokes, and Eames says, "They'll what?"

"They'll know I don't want them," Arthur forces out, his eyes stinging. "Like my mother didn't want me."

Eames grabs him and pulls him into a tight hug, holding on even when Arthur half-heartedly squirms to get away. He gives in, slumping into Eames, and for a minute they both just stand there in the hall with people hurrying past them.

"Your mother left you," Eames says softly, close to his ear. "You have a choice. You can do what she did and walk away now and I'll let you go, and I'll raise them and I'll miss you every day of my life. Or you can go back to that room with me, and we can do this one step at a time, together, like all parents do."

Put that way, it isn't much of a choice at all.

He takes a deep breath and nods his head jerkily. Eames leads him by the hand back to the room.

He doesn't want to watch. He stands in a corner, out of the way of the proceedings, his stomach churning. He tells himself he doesn't have to decide anything right now. Right now, it's important that he be here, for Ariadne as much as Eames, but later, when it's just them, they can have an actual discussion and work something out. And it's not that Arthur _wants_ to leave Eames, because of course he doesn't, he doesn't want that _at all_ , he loves Eames -- but Eames loves these kids, and Arthur can't be around to raise them, he just can't, _he just can't_...

Dr. Susanne is positioned to catch the baby, coaching and encouraging Ariadne, while Eames holds her hand anxiously; and the doctor says, "It's coming, almost here, just a little more, Ariadne--"

Then she's straightening up, saying, "I've got him," and everything goes quiet except for Ariadne's ragged breaths. The baby isn't crying.

"Is he okay?" Ariadne asks shakily. Arthur's never been so conscious of his pounding heartbeat. He stares, transfixed, at the tiny wrinkled bundle in the doctor's hands, willing it to move or do something. Anything.

It takes a breath. Then it bursts into a choking cry, its face turning pink.

"He's just fine," Dr. Susanne pronounces, beaming. The baby is handed off to a nurse who quickly cleans and dries it, weighs it and swaddles it in a blanket, and by the time she's done this, the crying has stopped but the baby is still pink, alive, real.

"Here, Papa," the French nurse says kindly, handling the bundle to Arthur before he can object. He opens his mouth to protest but then it's in his arms and he can't just drop it so he holds it, stares at it, unable to produce words.

The baby blinks at him, its eyes two unfocused blue slits. It looks sleepy, as if it's seen the world now and is bored, ready to take a nap. It has a tiny fist curled near its face and even though Arthur knows it's silly, he counts its fingers anyway. They're all there and they're all impossibly tiny.

"Hi," he manages to whisper. The baby fits perfectly in the cradle of his arm. He takes its tiny hand between a thumb and forefinger. "You're pretty small."

"Four pounds, nine and a half ounces," Dr. Susanne says, smiling.

It takes Arthur a moment to realize Eames is at his side, tucking in close. The world contracts suddenly to the three of them, as if they're all alone in the universe. Nothing else matters. The baby is here and he's theirs and the feeling that bubbles up inside Arthur threatens to overwhelm him. As if his whole heart is suddenly resting in the palm of his baby's hand. He never knew it was possible to feel emotion with his whole body until this moment.

The baby smells a little like Ariadne but he has a scent that's all his own, one that reminds Arthur of himself and of Eames. He smells like home.

And he has two tiny, velvety, folded-down ears on top of his head.

"Hello, baby," Eames murmurs over Arthur's shoulder. "You've got two dads and an aunt here who've been dying to meet you."

"And we're going to spoil you," Arthur adds, unsticking his throat.

Eames gives him a quick, proud, affectionate smile. "Yes," he says. "And that." He tickles the baby's blanketed tummy with one finger, and his hand looks huge next to their baby. "You've got a lovely godmummy who was nice enough to carry you around for a few months in her tummy. And you've got a mentally unstable godfather who nearly killed us all, but he's a nice enough bloke."

"Let me see him," Ariadne says.

Reluctantly, Arthur transfers the baby to Eames who carries it to Ariadne. She cuddles it close.

"Hi," she says softly, exhausted. "You just came out of me. How weird is that?"

"Not as weird as the fact that he came out of Arthur first," says Eames.

Ariadne laughs, and Arthur says anxiously, "I want to hold him again."

Eames does the transfer again and Arthur breathes in the baby's scent, relaxing. The baby opens his blue eyes again, peering fuzzily up at Arthur as if to say, _Oh. It's you again_. Then he closes them. Arthur supposes he passes muster, and that fills him with irrational relief. His baby doesn't hate him. Even though Arthur didn't want him. His baby doesn't mind.

Eames winds his arms around Arthur's waist from behind, and they both just watch the sleeping bundle for a minute.

Ariadne sniffs. Arthur glances up to see her smiling tearfully at them.

"I'm really happy for you guys," she says.

"Ready to start pushing again?" Dr. Susanne asks.

Ariadne's demeanour changes instantly. "Fuck! I have to do this _two more times?_ Isn't one enough for you guys?"

 

+

Flying into Paris has never felt so good. Still, the anxiety worrying away at the pit of Arthur's stomach doesn't dissipate until he's actually stepping into his house, taking in the familiar scents of his family. The house is hushed; he can hear Eames' soft voice upstairs, coming from the nursery.

He slings his bag to the floor and heads up the staircase. On the landing he can discern Eames' words.

"... ready to show Daddy what you've learned to do? We'll give him a big kiss and then we'll show him what a clever boy you are, yeah?"

Arthur pauses in the doorway, regarding Eames with a tired but fond smile. He's got Thomas, who is busily clutching at and gumming a plastic key ring, in his lap. Eames grins at him, and Arthur crosses the room, leaning down to kiss him fervently. Eames grips his tie and doesn't let him up right away.

"We missed you."

"I was gone four days. They probably don't even remember me."

It's only half a joke. Eames promptly lets him go, though, and when Arthur straightens up he sees Thomas reaching for him and smiling with bright, wide eyes. The baby's whole body wriggles with glee.

Arthur is suddenly crippled by that usual overwhelming feeling that washes over him when he's around his babies. He swallows it and scoops Thomas into his arms, grunting to mask the surge of emotion.

"He feels heavier."

"Probably. He's growing all the time." Eames reaches up and tugs Thomas' small, silky slip of a tail. "He'll be a big dog, like his dad."

Thomas is sucking on a tiny clenched fist, watching Arthur wide-eyed. When Arthur looks down and meets his eyes, Thomas starts to smile again, almost secretively.

"What are you so happy about?" Arthur asks, in a mock grumble. "You didn't miss me, did you?"

Thomas' whole face splits into the grin Arthur loves, dimpling his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his eyes. He kicks his feet and swipes his slobbery hand over Arthur's cheek. Normally Arthur would pretend to grimace, but he's grinning, too.

"Oh! Look what he can do," Eames says, suddenly remembering. Arthur hands the baby over and sits down to watch as Eames sits him on the floor on his bottom. Thomas reaches for Arthur again, clenching his hands hungrily. "No, show Daddy what you can do, Tommy, remember? Then he'll give you a big cuddle."

Carefully, Eames takes his hands away and leaves Thomas sitting there. For a second he's actually sitting up unsupported, and Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but then he flops backwards into Eames' waiting hands.

"He did it earlier," Eames says sheepishly. "Although I did sort of ... prop him up, like ..."

He tries again, balancing Thomas just so. This time Thomas slides slowly forward, landing on his belly, where he jams his fist back into his mouth, entirely unconcerned at this predicament.

"Well, he _can_ do it," Eames says defensively. "He's just being a lazy sod now."

Arthur strokes a hand over Thomas' silky head, rubbing the tiny ears. Secretly, he's glad Thomas is being lazy. He's growing faster than either of his siblings; he can already roll over. The next stage will be mobility, and then he'll be a toddler before they know it, and Arthur likes him just like this: small and wriggly and soft, like a little caterpillar. Thomas smiles secretively at him again around the hand in his mouth.

There's a distinctly concerned warble from the crib in the corner.

"That'll be Will," Eames says as Arthur automatically gets up. "I just fed and put Leah down an hour ago."

By the time Arthur reaches the crib, the warbling has turned into a full-blown wail. The crying used to scare him; now he reaches in easily and scoops William out. The baby curves toward him, snuffling at his neck, and keeps up a series of wails while Arthur carries him downstairs to fetch a bottle of formula from the fridge, murmuring gently to him all the while. He warms it up, tests it, and offers it. At first William squirms, pushing it away, but Arthur keeps coaxing and once he's had a taste he latches on greedily.

"That's my boy," Arthur murmurs, carrying him back upstairs. Will is still light, too light; they were all born tiny, but Will's the smallest of his siblings. At birth he'd been no longer than the span from the tip of Eames' middle finger to the base of his palm. His brother and sister grew quickly but the first month of Will's life was a constant struggle to put weight on him, riddling Arthur with anxiety.

He's about nine pounds now, enough that they don't worry about him so much, and he keeps almost everything down, so Arthur didn't feel too terrible about leaving them for a quick four-day trip in the last stages of a point job he'd worked mostly from home.

Of course, he didn't anticipate how it would feel to be separated from his family. Every day he'd been away, he felt as if he'd been ripped in half.

"Did they drive you crazy?" he asks Eames, settling in an armchair in a corner of the nursery.

"Me? Never," says Eames. He's still trying to convince Thomas to sit up, and Thomas is just as determined to keep toppling over. Eames pauses, and grins up at Arthur. "Alright, Ariadne stayed over for a few days. But only because I've only got so many hands."

"I'll try to find jobs I won't have to leave home for."

"That would be a good idea for when they get mobile," Eames says, catching Thomas on a backwards flop and tickling his tummy, making him squeal. "I imagine we'll need all hands on deck."

Arthur tries not to think about it. He just relaxes into the chair with a sigh, closing his eyes, and listens to the soft suckling sound of William at the bottle. Absently, he thumbs one of Will's ears. It's nearly impossible to tell whether his features are more lupine or feline at this stage -- his tail is a skinny little slip and his small, triangular ears could go either way at this point. But it's obvious he takes after Arthur. His fur is grey, almost silver, and his tail is a bit longer than his siblings' and striped. Even his hair is dark like Arthur's. Leah, too, has dark hair, but her and Thomas' tails are tawny-coloured.

_You came from me_ , Arthur thinks, not the first time he's thought it, with a strange twist of emotion in his chest. _And I thought I didn't want you_.

He's practically drifting off, jet-lagged and lulled by the sound of Will's steady suckling, but he opens his eyes then and yelps in surprise.

"What?" Eames demands, already sweeping Thomas up and jumping to his feet. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing -- it's just -- Christ," Arthur says, with a disbelieving laugh. Will gazes steadily up at him, still suckling from the bottle, his muzzle damp and milk-stained from what doesn't end up in his mouth.

"He transformed!" Eames cheers. "Look, Tommy! Your brother's like you!"

Arthur catches his breath, slowly stroking Will's baby fur. It's soft and dark grey. He looks -- like a wolf cub, like Thomas and Leah do when they change, but like a throwback of some kind, sleeker and with a longer tail.

Eames swaps babies with Arthur, careful to let Will go on nursing, and deftly removes his onesie so that he can squirm about as he pleases. His paws clutch at nothing, kneading the air.

"Look," Eames says, taking the bottle away for a moment so that he can show Arthur the pup's back. Just above his tail, barely standing out against the dark charcoal fur, is a row of faded black tabby stripes, spangled with spots toward the edges.

"Guess he's a werewolf after all," Arthur says softly. He's taken longer to change than both his siblings, and they'd been starting to wonder, with his slightly-feline features.

Eames squeezes onto the chair at his side and lets the pup continue to nurse, while Arthur wonderingly strokes his fingertips down the tabby stripes. Will shuts his eyes and pushes insistently at Eames' shirt with both forepaws, then settles and quietly starts to purr.

"The world's first purring werewolf," Eames whispers.

They watch him, long after Thomas has dozed off, until Will licks his lips several times, yawns squeakily, and goes to sleep as well, his belly full of warm milk.

"What will we do when they sync up to the lunar cycle?" Arthur asks in a hushed voice.

"They should mostly sleep though it at first," Eames answers, equally quiet. "They'll just creep around and chew on one another a bit even if they are awake. When they're big enough, I'll take them with me."

"You'll eat them!" Arthur hisses.

"I'd never hurt my own babies!" Eames shoots back indignantly.

"How do you know?" Arthur demands.

"I just do." Eames passes a hand down William's back again, gazing at him affectionately. "I'll teach them everything they need to know. And if anything tries to hurt them, I'll rip it to shreds."

Arthur has to admit, that's pretty reassuring.

They sit together for awhile. Leah wakes up with a little coo, and Arthur hands Thomas over to Eames so that he can go and give her a cuddle, too, and they sprawl there on the chair, all five of them.

"Thanks for looking after them," Arthur says, drowsily, while Leah sucks on a pacifier in his arms. Eames yawns.

"Where would you be without me?"

"Well, I'd be single," Arthur says. "And I wouldn't have any mutant werekitten babies."

"And that would be awful," says Eames sleepily.

"Yeah," Arthur agrees. He tightens his hold on Leah minutely before he falls asleep. "It would."


	2. Chapter 2

People are looking at them like they're crazy when they board the plane. They probably are crazy, bundling three infants onto a plane. At least it's only an hour-long flight from Paris to London.

They're taking the red-eye. The babies have been sleeping through the night consistently for awhile now, and to Arthur's relief, they remain fast asleep during the check-in process. They're good at sticking to their routine. Ariadne, who's coming with them to London, is quick with a pacifier when Leah fusses a little, putting her out again. Her brothers are mostly out to the world for the majority of the check-in and boarding.

When they're on the plane and Arthur is settled comfortably in his window seat, with Will dozing in his lap, he's feeling fairly smug about how well-behaved his children are. Even when the engines start to roar all around them and the plane starts to take off, they're quiet. He's not aware Thomas is awake until his ears are just starting to pop and he hears Eames next to him saying, “Oh, no, Tommy, not you ...”

He turns to look. Thomas' face is scrunched up; he looks on the verge of a meltdown.

Eames scoops him swiftly and starts rubbing his back, murmuring to him. Arthur winces and looks away. He _hates_ it when Thomas cries. Thomas is the happiest of his siblings; he seems to accept everything with a sort of philosophical grace. Nothing much seems to ruffle him. So when he cries, it's as if the world has done him a personal wrong, just to upset him. And Arthur hates that. To be honest, it makes him feel like crying, too.

Eames, evidently made of sterner stuff, keeps up a steady stream of comfort even while Thomas breaks into full-on tears, crying and clutching at his ear, which is tucked away underneath a hat Arthur's mom had knitted—not one of his little wolfish ears, but his human one.

“Another ear infection coming on,” Eames grunts, shifting Thomas to his other arm. “Poor little mite, we didn't think of that.”

Arthur just gazes out at the glittering black landscape below and starts worrying his lip between his teeth. It seems like a bad omen.

Thomas' cries dwindle into whimpers when they finally reach cruising altitude, though no effort by Ariadne or Eames can soothe him completely. He just goes on rubbing his ear and whimpering, and it's such a short flight that it normally feels like they're only at cruising altitude for a few minutes before they start to descend, but to Arthur, this time, it feels like forever. When the plane starts to descend and the air pressure starts to change again, Thomas breaks into fresh tears and cries like his little heart is breaking.

He's so audibly distressed that at least half the other passengers are looking over with more sympathy than annoyance. As soon as the plane lands, Eames scoops Will out of Arthur's lap and says “Grab the luggage” before he and Ariadne hurry the babies off the plane.

Will and Leah are strapped into a stroller by the time Arthur gets into the terminal—Will still fast asleep, Leah sucking on her pacifier and taking it all in with wide eyes. Arthur drops the diaper bag next to them and looks at Eames, who is still trying to soothe Thomas. When Thomas sees Arthur, he curves toward him with a wail. His nose is running and his face is wet with tears.

“I'm sorry,” Eames says, shifting Thomas' weight in his arms, as if Thomas' ear infections are his fault. He sounds exhausted; neither of them have slept for twenty-four hours. “I _know_ this isn't your thing—”

“Give him to me,” Arthur says.

Eames hands him over. Thomas is reaching for Arthur before he's even in his arms. Arthur hefts him up against his chest, that spot where the babies settle so naturally in his arms, and Thomas burrows into him. There's a tissue in Arthur's jacket pocket. He pulls it out and gently wipes his baby's face, then stoops down and digs through the diaper bag until he finds a teething ring to offer. Thomas takes it and gums it, muffling his whimpers.

Eames sighs heavily.

“We'll have to get him on some more antibiotics,” he says. “We definitely can't put him on a plane again until he's feeling better. Have you ever been on a plane with an ear or sinus infection? The poor little thing.”

Arthur sighs, too, pressing his cheek to the top of Thomas' head.

“We're here for the full moon, then,” he says.

Eames nods. Thomas' whimpers dwindle off slowly into soft, raspy little breaths.

 

+

Arthur loves his babies. Loves them in that special kind of way where he would submit to waterboarding and bamboo splinters shoved under his fingernails if it meant protecting them (and he's experienced both those things. They are not even a little pleasant).

It's similar to the way he loves Eames, but also different. Arthur loves Eames so wholly and unequivocally that it makes him feel like an idiot. Feeling like an idiot is not one of Arthur's favourite states of being, and for this reason he has a lot of trouble articulating his feelings to Eames. Past experience has taught him to guard his heart, and those stupid words make him so uncomfortable, even when they're coming out of Eames' mouth. So he says it with his lips, with his hands, with his actions, with his whole body, and hopes Eames understands.

He loves his babies unreservedly. He finds himself daily murmuring oaths of adoration into silky wisps of hair, furry little ears, soft round tummies. This also, at first, made him feel stupid, because Arthur's not exceptionally good at the whole affection thing. His mom was always very big on cuddling and kissing, and Arthur ... isn't. He can accept affection on his own terms (“What d'you expect, you're a cat,” Eames had put it, with a shit-eating grin), but reciprocation isn't his strong suit. (He suspects sometimes that Eames only loves knotting with him because then he can't squirm his way out of a post-coital snuggle.) He had to be taught to love his babies out loud, to lift them and swing them and hold them and sing to them.

He knows Eames doesn't pick favourites, but it's hard not to—the only thing is that Arthur can't settle on one for more than five minutes. Oftentimes it's Thomas, who is their firstborn, and so is the one who officially knocked Arthur's world off its axis forever—but besides that, he is just such a lovable baby. He's so happy. When he sees Arthur or Eames he lights up in what the books call a full-body smile—beaming, kicking, all-out I'm-so-happy-to-see-you where-have-you-been-all-my-life wriggling. And he's good enough at cuddling for both him and Arthur. He likes to bury his nose in Arthur's neck, the same way Eames does.

Leah's their little girl, though, and that counts for a lot. She has a way of wrapping them both utterly and helplessly around her little finger with just a perfectly-timed smile. She's mercurial in her affections, and it's easy to feel resentful when she spurns Arthur and only stops crying when she's cuddled in Eames' arms—and she's Eames' little girl more often than not—but when she reaches for Arthur instead, it's the most validating feeling in the entire world. He tends to get a little smug when that happens.

But there's Will, baby of the family, squashed by his siblings when they curl up together as cubs; the one whose first month home from the hospital was full of sleepless nights spent trying to coax him to keep down just a few ounces of formula. They definitely dote on Will. And Will is different, besides—he takes after Arthur, reason enough for both Arthur and Eames to hold a soft spot for him.

His babies. They are _perfect_.

And now Arthur has to _share them_.

He's allowed to be bitter, isn't he?

 

+

Ariadne leaves them just outside the airport. She's got a couple friends she's staying with in London. Before she goes, she wishes them luck. Arthur thinks privately that they'll need it, bundling three babies into their rental car for the three-hour drive to Eames' house.

Eames is more sanguine, because car rides usually put the little ones to sleep. But they're only twenty minutes on their way before Will, presumably to be contrary, wakes up and starts crying in his squashy infant car seat. As the non-driver, it falls to Arthur to fix him: but Will doesn't want formula. He doesn't want attention, and he doesn't want his favourite stuffed horse Mr. Cumberbatch (so named by Eames). He just wants to cry. He cries until he finally lapses into hiccups, and that's the soundtrack for the remainder of the drive up to Eames' parents' house.

It would be annoying if it wasn't so stupidly cute.

Thomas and Leah stay passed out in their car seats the whole way. They are Arthur's favourites.

“Thank God,” Arthur sighs when they're finally pulling up the long gravel drive to the house sometime around mid-morning. He gets out as soon as the car stops, and starts extricating some of their bags along with Leah in her travel seat. Eames grabs Thomas, still dozing, and Will, still hiccuping, and leads the way. Evidently his mother has been listening for him, because she opens the door before they even reach the front stoop.

“My darling,” she says excitedly, throwing her arms around Eames. “And Arthur,” she says, giving him the same treatment. She takes Will from Eames, lightening his load. “Come in, come in. We've been so excited—”

Arthur can tell; she's positively bubbling with it as she takes them straight to the carpeted sitting room and ushers them to put the babies down. Eames' father limps in with a bit more energy than usual, his grey eyes shining.

“Let me see my grandchildren,” he says as soon as he's greeted them both, easing himself down onto the nearest couch.

Promptly, Eames unbuckles Thomas' car seat and lifts him out, handing him over. He looks as small in Eames' father's rough hands as he does in Eames'. Eames' mother sits down next to her mate so she can croon over the baby as well.

“That's Thomas Junior,” says Eames.

“Minus the Junior,” Arthur interjects.

“Alright, but technically he's Thomas Junior.”

“He's Thomas Junior if we want people to call him stupid nicknames like 'TJ' or 'Junior',” Arthur argues.

“What's wrong with TJ?” Eames demands.

“He's _lovely_ ,” Eames' mother cuts in. Thomas is waking up in his granddad's lap, not at all unsettled to be met by two strangers but peering at them rather curiously. “Every bit as handsome as his fathers.”

Eames beams proudly. “This is Princess Leah,” he says, lifting Leah out of her car seat and handing her to his mum. Arthur notes that he's careful to pronounce it properly, so as not to warrant a scowl. It's a cute nickname, but not when it's in reference to _Star Wars_.

“And Will,” Eames finishes, lifting their smallest. Will's hiccups have tapered off. Eames hefts him in his arms and he gazes at his grandparents with wide, kittenish eyes, curling a tiny fist into Eames' shirt.

Eames' parents coo adoringly over the babies. Leah soaks up their attention with an almost smug air before deciding she doesn't like it, and starts to fuss and squirm—her typical threat of an impending meltdown if she doesn't get what she wants, now—so Arthur swiftly grabs her and Eames passes Will to his mum instead. Arthur keeps waiting for them to say something about the babies' ears, but they don't; not even when Lady Pendleton-Eames notices Will's little banded tail, peeking through a slit in the back of his onesie. She runs it between her fingers gently.

“They're all lovely,” she says.

“They're perfect,” Eames' father rumbles proudly. He tickles Thomas' belly to make him kick his legs and squeal. “Absolutely perfect.”

Arthur hadn't realized it, but he'd been waiting with bated breath for their approval. When it comes, he exhales.

This turns into a grimace when Leah licks his neck. He's certain she gets that from Eames.

 

+

Arthur goes upstairs and unpacks while Eames catches up with his parents. When he returns to the main floor, Eames is setting up the babies in their portable soft mesh playpen while his parents are putting food on the table. Lunch is sandwiches and tea. They're not half done before Leah starts to make noise. “Singing”, Eames calls it—she's just learning that she can manipulate her daddies just by changing the tone and pitch of her voice, and is having fun experimenting. This particular song is a familiar I'm-about-to-start-screaming-if-you-don't-feed-me tune. Even Thomas is starting to fuss.

Arthur gets up promptly to prepare their formula. Eames' mum is only too willing to help feed them, so Eames gives her Thomas, who stops everything as soon as he latches onto the bottle. His eyes half close in contentment and he focuses all his energy on eating. Eames himself scoops Leah, and Arthur takes Will.

Feeding used to be a quiet affair, and it sometimes still is. But they've found lately that Leah is starting to become easily distracted, unlike her brothers, who are totally intent on the bottle. Leah frequently has to stop and look around, forgetting the bottle altogether until it's waved in front of her face. And the singing. Noisy, tuneless humming while she eats; birdlike chirps and warbles while she looks around. She doesn't stop and Eames can't get enough of it. Now and then he'll ask, “Are you singing me a song?” and she'll look at him like she's just remembered he's there, and her little face will light up and she'll squeal and reach for his face.

Arthur hadn't though it possible, but he's reached a whole new depth of love for Eames since seeing him interact with the babies.

Despite the plethora of distractions all around them, it's Will who's the last one left working on his bottle, his suckling punctuated now and then by a little hiccup.

“Sometimes,” Eames tells his mum, setting Leah on her tummy on the floor, “once they've eaten, they change before they fall asleep ...”

Arthur looks on as Thomas is placed on the floor in front of Leah. He doesn't disappoint. The transition from drowsy baby to drowsy cub is seamless. Leah, watching, copies him. They often mirror each other.

“Oh,” Eames' mum breathes. “They're beautiful.”

“They look like you,” Eames' dad tells him from the doorway. He's right; the resemblance is very strong. Thomas is a tiny copy of his father, tawny-coloured with a grey-tipped stripe down his spine where his mane will be. Leah is more of a cinnamon colour—also tawny, but brindled so liberally with ginger that her fuzzy baby coat looks almost red in the right light. Her ears are red too—not just reddish, like Eames' in his wolf form, but fox-red.

They always seem uncomfortable in their clothes when they're cubs, so Eames takes the offending articles away and leaves them free to creep about. At five months now, where real wolf cubs would already be racing about and pouncing, the werewolves are only just figuring out their legs. They're keeping pace with their human development, and as humans, they haven't even learned to crawl yet. As cubs, Thomas and Leah are just learning to creep—but mostly, they prefer to be picked up and cuddled. When this doesn't happen, they inch across the carpet and cuddle each other.

“Put Will down, Arthur,” Eames says, without tearing his eyes away from the cubs. His parents are equally enchanted. When Arthur doesn't move, Eames looks over. “Arthur?”

Arthur shakes his head minutely from side to side, holding Will up to his shoulder. Eames' face softens and he gets up to sit down on the couch next to Arthur.

“Let me have him,” Eames says. Arthur tightens his hold, and Eames sighs. “Please, Arthur.”

“He's fine,” Arthur says stubbornly.

“I want my parents to see him.”

If their impeccable hearing wasn't an issue, Arthur would say, _I don't_. But they're starting to notice Arthur and Eames, and there's nothing Arthur can say that they won't hear, so he presses his lips together tightly and lifts Will from his shoulder. Eames takes him gently.

“Thank you,” he says.

Arthur just watches, anxious.

Will looks bemused when he's placed on his tummy on the floor, facing his furry siblings. When he starts to change, Arthur can feel his own nails digging into his thighs.

“Will's special,” Eames says, kneeling down with the babies. Arthur flinches. He hates that word. _Special_ is just a polite word for _freak_. Noticing, Eames gives him a contrite little smile, pulls Will into his lap and says, “He's just different, that's all.”

“Oh,” Eames' mother gasps when Eames peels the onesie and diaper off of Will. Will the cub definitely does not look like Eames. He doesn't even look like his siblings. He's got a longer body, sleeker fur where they have baby fluff. His ears are ever so slightly more rounded at the tips, his muzzle a little blunter. His tail is longer and skinnier. Instead of tawny and grey, he's a dark charcoal colour throughout. Midway down his back, a row of black stripes starts, continuing down through his ringed tail.

He's not a wolf. He's not even a cat. He's not anything Arthur has a name for.

“He's not a werewolf,” he says bluntly, daring them to take issue with this.

Eames glances at him again, and then says, “He hasn't synced up to the lunar cycle yet. It might still happen, though.”

It won't. Arthur's pretty sure of that. Will slithers out of Eames' lap, squinting and sniffing at the air. Eames scoops him under the belly with one hand and puts him with his siblings. Will snuggles contentedly into the pile, his brother and sister shifting obligingly to make room for him.

“He's lovely,” Eames' mother breathes. She kneels on the floor, too, and traces Will's stripes with her finger. “I've never seen anything like it. Have you?” she asks her mate. He shakes his head. Arthur starts to bristle, until he replies.

“No, there's no black on my side,” he says, and Arthur realizes they're talking about his coat pattern. “And there's certainly never been a wolf with stripes. He must get it from Arthur's side.”

Eames' mother laughs delightedly, stroking Will's back. To Arthur, Eames' father says, “My wife's pet theory is that our two species share a common ancestor.”

“And I was right, wasn't I?” she says. Will turns, snuffling her hand sleepily, then starts to suck on her finger, and she laughs again. “Oh, isn't he sweet!”

She's enthralled. For a moment Arthur wonders if Eames had warned his parents beforehand, told them to put it on for Arthur's benefit, but a quick glance at Eames, who is beaming, tells him that isn't so.

“I told you,” Eames says, nudging Arthur's leg. “Anyone can see how gorgeous he is.”

And it's true, really. That's why he's Arthur's favourite.

 

+

Arthur spends the afternoon napping in the green room—that's the Eameses' name for the glass sun room at the back of the house. There are comfy wicker chairs with squashy cushions and ottomans and Arthur lies there in the sun for hours before Eames comes to bother him.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, grinning. “Family'll be here soon. Besides, Leah wants you.”

“How do you know?” Arthur grumbles, even though he knows better than to question Eames' understanding of Leah's constant noises. Eames winks.

Sure enough, when Arthur trudges into the kitchen where the playpen is, his babies are human-formed once more and Leah screams when she sees him. It's a happy scream. Arthur scoops her up and she kicks his stomach joyously.

“No boy will ever be good enough for you,” Arthur tells her gravely. “And I'll shoot anyone who thinks he is.” She grins and starts blowing bubbles on his shirt.

He carries her around until the first family members start to arrive. Then he passes her off to Eames' mother and hastily slips upstairs. Eames finds him rummaging through their suitcase a few minutes later.

“Please come down, Arthur,” he says.

“I'm just checking something.”

“You're being avoidant.”

It's not like this is _easy_ for Arthur. He's never had a big family, let alone one whose collective scent makes him want to stick his nose in bleach. He doesn't like big crowds.

“Cats don't do the whole social thing,” he says lamely.

Eames hooks an arm around his waist. “Well, this cat married into a family of werewolves and has to own that at some point.”

“We're not married,” Arthur says—much too quickly, he realizes in the next second.

He could wince at himself. Eames lets him go slowly.

“Would you like to be?” he asks quietly.

Arthur can feel a flush rising in his face. “We're not talking about this now,” he says, because they're _not_. Not here.

Eames frowns. Arthur adds tartly, “And if that's your proposal, you need to work on it.”

Eames' face relaxes into a smile. He leans in and nuzzles him.

“Come down for a bit. Half an hour. Then you can escape.”

“Half an hour,” Arthur agrees. “That's all.”

One thing that can be said for werewolves is that they are honest, in the nature of most animals. They don't put on false pretences around Arthur because they have no need. Even if he is different, he's an accepted member of the pack, and that puts an end to any disputes that might have arisen. They greet him just as they would any other cousin. Arthur appreciates that, but not so much how _tactile_ they are—he gets pulled into several hugs against his will, and retreats to a corner as soon as their attention is off him and back on the little ones.

Werewolves love babies, Eames has told him. Human, werewolf, it doesn't matter. Something about that unique baby smell invokes their most protective instincts, draws them in and captivates them. Those little furry ears and tails may as well be invisible, for all the notice the pack members take.

Arthur finds himself next to Lady Pendleton-Eames, who is exercising her authority as both alpha and grandmother to make sure at least one of the babies is in her arms at all times. She's cradling a sleepy Will and, Arthur realizes when he glances over at her, watching her family members coo over Will's siblings with misty eyes. She turns to Arthur and hugs him, gently, in a way he doesn't so much mind.

“You have given my pack a wonderful gift, Arthur,” she whispers in his ear, and kisses him on the cheek. He just shrugs and shifts uncomfortably, remembering how vehemently he had protested to the notion of having Eames' young.

He slinks away, over to where the food is, set out on a long table buffet-style, and is examining the vast variety of crackers and cheeses the Eameses have set out when he catches a familiar scent, moments before its owner is at his side.

“Congratulations.” Faye's voice is low and icy. Arthur tempers his own tone.

“Thank you.”

“Guess there's no question now who the next alpha is, even if Alizé is older,” she says, jerking her chin in the direction of Alizé and his recently-taken mate, who are standing apart from the others somewhat stiffly and watching. Arthur doesn't know what to say. He's too stubborn to apologize to her, not for something that isn't even his fault—he can't help that Eames likes him better.

Eames doesn't even see Faye anymore; his eyes slide right over her. He's in the thick of the pack right now, tickling Thomas to make him laugh, which makes everyone else laugh and exclaim. When he glances up, his eyes catch Arthur's like a magnet and he grins.

Faye leaves without saying anything else.

When Arthur has put in a full half hour, he's at the foot of the stairs before he remembers that he still hasn't seen the one person he really wanted to. He ventures back and takes a few deep breaths with his mouth open, cringing and sifting through the individual scents until he picks out Micah's.

Arthur had asked Eames about each pack member, curious about his adopted family, and didn't get his idea until Eames told him about Micah. Micah is a scholar whose field of study is history; werewolves in history most prominently. He has a PhD and a library at home; he's even published a number of texts. It wasn't difficult for Arthur to get in touch with him. He beckons to Micah now, pulling him away from Leah, who is lapping up all the attention with a self-satisfied air.

“I didn't find very much,” Micah warns once he's greeted Arthur and they've retreated to the front lobby.

“Anything at all is helpful,” says Arthur.

Micah looks doubtful. After a moment of hesitation, he goes over to his bag, which he's left on the front bench along with his coat. He pulls out a folder and offers it to Arthur, but when Arthur takes it, Micah is still gripping the edge.

“Are you sure you want to read it?”

Arthur nods. The folder slips out of Micah's fingers.

“I appreciate this,” he says.

“Sorry I couldn't find more,” says Micah, and he goes back to the parlour where everyone is gathered.

Arthur hurries up the stairs, clutching the folder tightly. But when he moves to shut the door, he hears Eames coming and immediately shoves the folder into the bottom of his suitcase, under his spare clothes, where Eames won't see it—not even knowing why, except that he wants to have this to himself for now.

“I know I said I'd only make you do half an hour,” Eames says, popping his head in, “but I was telling them how Tommy likes to greet us, and he won't do it for me 'cause I've been around him all night ...”

“I'll come down,” Arthur says quickly. Eames grins at him, grabs him in a kiss when he steps back onto the landing.

“I'm so glad we're here,” he murmurs in Arthur's ear.

Eventually, late in the evening, after all the family has trickled out of the house and the babies are fast asleep in their cots in the room next to Eames' parents, Arthur lounges in bed, watching Eames undress.

“Feels weird not to have them nearby,” he mumbles, when Eames turns off the lights and climbs into bed with him.

“I know. Mum'll take good care of them, though. She says we're off duty.”

“We've earned it,” Arthur says, and he's suddenly very aware of how close to him Eames is in the dark, and how awake he is all of a sudden, and how _very little_ sex they've been having over the course of the past five months.

“I'll say,” Eames murmurs, before leaning over and kissing him.

Arthur could never be a poker player: his tail flicks the bedcovers repeatedly with delight until Eames pins him down bodily and kisses him harder. Somehow, he forgets all about the folder in the bottom of his suitcase.

 

+

They take Thomas to the nearest doctor to get some antibiotics for his ear, and then settle in to wait for him to get better. There's no shortage of eager babysitters. Eames' mum happily spends her entire day with the little ones; Eames' aunts come over, and his cousin, who is just past the risky first trimester and expecting her first cub soon.

There isn't actually much for Arthur to do in terms of infant care. For the first time in five months he has actual free time, and it's initially baffling. He's not quite sure what to do with himself, at first. Then he relearns the joy of a long afternoon nap in the sun, often curled around Eames (Arthur always starts out sleeping like a normal person, but wakes up in a fetal ball depending on how comfy he is).

And they reacquaint themselves with each other's bodies, lovingly and at length: passionate fucking at night, and slow, lazy lovemaking in the morning. It's a relief to learn that parenthood hasn't diminished their libido one bit—just put it on hold, for awhile.

“We could live here,” Eames says one night, while they're still basking in a post-orgasmic afterglow. “Think about it. We could live down the road and my family could help us out all the time. Ari could still visit from Paris, we only moved there to be close to her and she's on jobs half the time ...”

“I can't hear you,” Arthur says, his eyes shut. “I'm sleeping.”

He can feel Eames nosing at the nape of his neck, stubble scratching just enough to make him shiver.

“Someday we're going to talk, Arthur,” he growls.

Arthur plays dead as best he can. Eames snorts and Arthur thinks it's amazing he hasn't been dumped on his ass yet.

Before long Arthur is quite ready to go back to Paris, as nice as all the napping and the sex is; but Eames drags his heels and even the babies aren't on Arthur's side. They love being surrounded by adoring family members.

“I think Thomas is all better,” Arthur says, sitting on the floor and examining his ear. He holds him up to Eames. “Look. Better.”

Eames props Thomas on his hip, a wry smile twisting his lips. “He's got another week of antibiotics to go.”

“We could drive home.”

Eames kneels down across from Arthur and sets Thomas down with his brother and sister. “I know you're worrying about tomorrow.”

“You're expecting me to put three defenseless infants in with a pack of fanged wolves.”

Eames leans over to kiss him and, when Arthur pulls away from him, just grazes the corner of his eye. “Nobody's going to hurt them. I swear to you, Arthur. Even if anyone among them had the capacity to harm an infant, they know these are the alpha's babies.”

“ _My_ babies, Eames,” Arthur says, feeling stupid and frustrated and embarrassed at how irrational he's being. “ _My_ babies.”

This time Eames curves a hand around the back of Arthur's neck to kiss him, so that he can't twist out of it.

“You can be there. You can watch. And I'll be there, I won't leave them, and neither will my parents.” He pauses. “This is important, Arthur. It'll really make them one of us.”

“How little were you when you first went out with your pack on a full moon?” Arthur asks grudgingly. Eames grins, because he knows he's wearing Arthur down.

“Smaller than them.”

“I doubt it.” Nothing is smaller than them. They're impossibly small. Ridiculously, _breakably_ small. He frowns. “Can I bring a weapon?”

“Anything of your choice,” Eames promises. “As lethal as you like.”

“Then—I guess. I guess this can happen. If it has to.” He pulls Will into his lap, smoothing down his soft hair. Eames does the same thing with Leah, who chirps for him. “But I don't want you keeping them out all night,” Arthur warns viciously. “Or they'll sleep all day and stay up the next night.”

“Of course.”

“And then we're going home.”

Eames sighs, but he nods.

It's a wonder he puts up with Arthur. Of course, Eames knows as well as Arthur does that even a cat's kiss is abrasive.

 

+

Eames seems to be trying to make his children look presentable. Every time Arthur puts one down for a breather, he looks down to find Eames grooming the pup with long, sloppy strokes of his tongue.

“Would you stop that,” Arthur snaps, scooping Will away from him. “If you make them too wet they're going to get cold. Come on.”

He tucks Leah back under his arm, too, and Eames, with a last sullen stare, bends and picks up Thomas by the scruff. His thick second canines are very close to the pup's skin, but Arthur knows very well how gentle that mouth can be. (Not in a _weird_ way. One of Eames' favourite expressions of affection, when he's a wolf, is to take Arthur's hand in his mouth and just hold it. He's gentle enough that he's never broken the skin, even when he tugs at Arthur entreatingly, and Thomas, dangling from those fearsome jaws now, hardly wakes.)

Arthur had been very stubborn about not exposing his babies to the pack until they were properly transformed. Will, as usual, is mimicking his siblings, and Arthur hopes it holds. He sees Eames' tail rise and start to wave excitedly as they climb the last hill between them and the pack, the scent of which is thick in the air now. Arthur's heart is starting to pound against his ribs.

“I think I know now why I react to the smell of werewolves,” he tells Eames. “It's probably an instinct my species developed so we'd know to stay away in case _your_ kind went and knocked us up, and I'm the only one dumb enough not to run away ...”

But Eames, of course, isn't listening. His fur is bristling with excitement. He starts to break into a little trot and Arthur struggles to keep up, feeling queasy now.

Eames had to beg for a long time to be introduced to his cubs on a full moon, too. Finally Arthur had taken Thomas and a handgun down to the woods where Eames likes to run, and spotted the massive wolf skulking among the trees before he'd even gotten out of the car. He'd walked over, heart in his throat, drowsing pup in hands, not knowing what to expect, and when he got close, Eames did something he had never done before: he _growled_.

Arthur had immediately stopped and started moving backward. Eames had advanced, rumbling out a long, unbroken growl that couldn't be anything but a threat, and Arthur's mind had been so busy flicking over the various ways he could fight his way out of this that it took him a few seconds to notice, in the dark, that although Eames' ears were flat to his skull and his mane was hackling all the way down his spine, his tail was tucked very low. The smell of anxiety reached Arthur a moment later.

It went against all of Arthur's paternal instincts, but after a moment's agonizing indecision, he'd put Thomas on the ground and stepped away. The pup stretched and snuffled in his sleep, and Eames positively pounced; but before Arthur could react, Eames was sniffing, everywhere, nosing him roughly and inhaling so deeply Thomas's fur was in danger of being sucked into his nostrils. He'd sniffed and nosed and licked for almost a full minute before looking up at Arthur, and his tail had gone down again. Whining, he'd slunk up to Arthur, licking his lips and positively cringing in self-abasement, obviously mortified at having perceived his own mate as a threat. He'd shown his teeth in a nervous smile and licked at Arthur's hands.

“Something about you does things to the wolf in me, Arthur,” Eames had grumbled in the morning, plainly embarrassed by his show. “There's a bit of alpha in you, I swear.”

“Or you're just a big softie and your pack doesn't know it,” Arthur had replied dryly, and ducked the toast crust thrown at him.

But he remembers the chill that had shot down his spine as soon as Eames had lifted his lips, and he's not so worried about Eames' ability or willingness to protect the pups from his pack. That's the only thing that forces Arthur over the crest of that hill and makes him descend toward the pack.

Eames gallops ahead, too eager to wait for him, and immediately the wolves are milling around him. He sets Thomas down and Arthur hurries forward, only to be beset by another group who are eagerly sniffing at the bundles tucked under each arm. He is put in mind, not for the first time, of goats at a petting farm, clamouring for food.

He puts them both down, with great reluctance, and steps back. Tails are wagging on all sides as the wolves peer down at their tiny kin. Will, noticing, blinks his big blue eyes and yawns squeakily, and the tails start whipping back and forth with even more fervour.

They're spellbound. Arthur almost laughs. Suddenly these wolves really aren't that scary.

They move forward one at a time to sniff the pups, so as not to smother them. Will curls up and stares, wide-eyed, while Leah lifts her head and sniffs back boldly. The massive form of Micah towers over her, dwarfing her, and he touches noses with her gingerly. His muzzle is bigger than her head.

Eames picks up Thomas and brings him closer, shepherding his babies together, and Arthur moves away, in case anyone in the pack gets overwhelmed by their protective instincts and fails to recognize the human among them. Eames looks fairly ready to burst with pride, and Arthur notices a lot more muzzles being dipped respectively around him. He also doesn't fail to notice the way one male wolf jostles roughly against Eames' father by accident, and how nobody reacts.

While they're still thronged around the cubs, Eames breaks away from the pack and trots to where Arthur is sitting on the slope.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks irritably. He points. “You're supposed to be down there, protecting them.”

He gets a blank stare. Werewolves are intelligent, that's been proven. They can form plans and evaluate and consider things much the same way a human does. But they make decisions more in the fashion of animals. Right now, Arthur can tell that Eames has evaluated the danger to his pups, concluded that they are safe with the pack, and decided he would rather be next to his mate. It's these simplified thought processes that drive Arthur crazy.

“ _Go_ ,” he says firmly. “Forget me. Sit with them. _Look_ ,” he points again, “Leah's starting to crawl away, go get her—”

It's true, Leah's creeping away with clear purpose, like she's on a mission, and the wolves are all simply observing her indulgently, tongues lolling. Eames settles down next to Arthur, who gets up with a frustrated huff, forcing away mental images of giant owls swooping silently out of the black sky to snatch Leah away. When he's pushing past the wolves a few growl at him, hackling over the pups, before smelling the alpha on him and turning their heads away meekly.

Only when Arthur reaches Leah and grabs her up firmly in his arms does he notice Faye, sitting apart from the pack. She's a fair distance away, but as he watches, she gets up and slinks closer, hesitating indecisively. As a human Faye is probably around Ariadne's size, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet: as a wolf of the same mass she's barely the size of a German Shepherd dog, easily half Eames' bulk, little more than a lithe black shadow with no substance to her. She approaches the pack warily and threads her way cautiously through the throng, but before she reaches Will and Thomas at the centre, she's noticed. The nearest tails stop wagging and turn stiff, and two of the closest wolves round on her with snarls. She ducks their snapping jaws and beats a hasty retreat with her tail down, a few others snapping at her fleeing back for good measure. Nobody else seems to notice, and as soon as she's out of their midst the attacking wolves relax and turn their attention back to the pups.

Arthur had been watching to make sure she didn't try to do anything to his pups, just in case—who knows how far her bitterness towards him extends—but as she hunkers down at a safe distance once more, watching the pack, he's startled by the longing in her eyes. He tries to remember if he saw her around the babies that night the family was over, where the laws of pack hierarchy were more relaxed, and doesn't think he did.

“Did you want to see them?” he asks her.

One of her ears swivels and her head follows a split second later. Her eyes are like shining copper in her jet-black face and he's surprised at the intelligence there. No animal instinct dulls the light in her eyes. Her whiskers twitch slightly on one side.

He walks closer, still holding Leah. The closer he gets, the more her ears go down, until they're nearly flat, but she doesn't move away.

“Here,” he says grudgingly, holding Leah out.

Faye stares at him like she's waiting for him to trick her. When he doesn't, she moves her head closer—still staring warily at Arthur—and sniffs daintily at Leah. When nothing else happens, she finally lowers her gaze to the gently-squirming pup and does a more thorough sniff. She looks into Leah's face and seems to be searching for something.

Finally she lifts her eyes to Arthur's face again. He can't read what they say. She gets up and slips away into the night.

By the time Arthur returns to the pack, Eames has joined them as well. He's lying down and has pulled Will between his forelegs to give him a thorough bathing, in spite of Will's mewls and squeaks of protest. Thomas is mouthing and tugging at the fur of a wolf who could squash him with one paw and the rest are looking on with fond indulgence. A few jump up excitedly when they see Arthur bringing Leah over. He puts her down and watches as she rolls onto her back and mightily smacks the first wolf to sniff her across the muzzle. Tongues are instantly lolling all around her, as if they're all laughing affectionately. Even Alizé's mate is there—probably hoping for a child of her own, soon—though Alizé is more off to one side, watching Eames.

They're all so happy. They're so close—with the exception of Faye—so excited to welcome these little ones into their close-knit family fold. Nobody has even paused for a second over Will, the way he looks and smells so different from them.

And strangely, Arthur catches himself thinking, _Would it be so bad to live here?_

The wind changes and, wrinkling his nose, he answers himself bitterly, _Yes_.

But not with a whole lot of conviction.

When Eames finally leaves Will's fur alone and flops comfortably down next to Arthur again, he doesn't even complain. The pack's got it covered.

He lies down on his back, feels Eames take this invitation to drape his paw and massive head across Arthur's belly, and decides he'll wait another hour or so before he puts the babies to bed. He can give them that much.


	3. Chapter 3

Before they reach the front lobby of Eames' parents home, Eames suddenly darts past Arthur, down the stairs, and blocks his path.

“Something you should know,” he says. “The first birthday is kind of a big deal to werewolves.”

“Okay,” says Arthur. Seems like everything to do with the babies is a big deal. Eames' parents had been in transports of joy when they'd heard that Thomas had cut his first tooth.

“I know you think my family spoils them ...”

“They do spoil them.”

Eames holds his hands up placatingly. “I just want you to know what to expect. The first birthday is a big celebration because they're old enough to actually enjoy it. And ... sometimes, we go all-out.”

Arthur eyes him. “How much spoiling are we talking about here?”

“I'm just telling you,” Eames says. “Be really polite and gracious, okay? I know that humans always feel the need to reject gifts at first, or say, 'Oh, you shouldn't have, it's too much,' even if it is, but that's a real insult to a werewolf, especially if it's something for a baby. It's like turning down food from an Italian.”

Arthur scowls at him. “Our kids are going to be brats if your family doesn't stop treating them like royalty.”

Eames grins. “They'll have each other to keep their egos in check. And you. Besides, imagine what it was like when I was born, the only child of the alphas. And look how I turned out.”

“Self-entitled and obnoxious,” says Arthur.

“Just the way you like me,” Eames says smugly, and kisses him.

The babies' gifts are piled on a table when Arthur and Eames walk into the room where Eames' family is just starting to congregate. And on some chairs, and under the table. Arthur opens his mouth at once and Eames elbows him none-too-gently in the ribs.

“This looks lovely, Mum,” he says, embracing his mother fondly. And it does _look_ lovely. There are streamers everywhere and a big banner hanging from the ceiling that says _HAPPY 1st BIRTHDAY THOMAS, LEAH & WILLIAM!_ The babies are sitting on the floor amidst some torn wrapping paper, evidence of a few already-opened presents, and looking both smart and adorable in little white frocks.

“That's a lot of presents,” Arthur limits himself to commenting. Eames' mother beams as if he's paid her a compliment.

“Isn't it? We've been planning this for months, you know, the hardest part was waiting till now to give it to them. Don't worry, though, Arthur,” she adds, smiling gently at him. “Some of those are for Theo.”

Theodore is Eames' cousin's baby, just a couple months old now, and fast asleep in his mother's arms as she introduces them to Arthur and Eames' litter. Thomas, chewing thoughtfully on the ear of a new plush teddy bear, looks mildly fascinated by the tiny interloper, while Leah shows no interest at all and just wants to grab his mother's hair. She's reached _that_ phase.

Ariadne is keeping a close eye on them. It's her first time meeting the pack and they're all incredibly nice to her, which Arthur suspects has something to do with her carrying the babies to term for them. Eames' mum had greeted her like a daughter.

“Hey, Arthur, wanna give me a hand?” she calls over when Leah starts motoring away. Arthur swoops on her at once, swinging Leah as he lifts her, to make her squeal. She's an expert crawler by now. It's a little scary, mostly due to her attraction to mischief. She is definitely Eames' daughter.

Thomas follows her in his own shuffling crawl, then sits at Arthur's feet and holds his arms up to be lifted, too, so Arthur scoops him up as well. He's gotten very practiced at holding two at the same time. Will, who can't crawl at all yet, is cuddled in Ariadne's lap and focusing very hard on a pile of toy blocks.

“It's nice to have one sedentary baby, isn't it?” Ariadne says. Arthur frowns, because he's never _not_ worrying about his babies, and she smiles gently. “He's a preemie, Arthur. He'll start moving around when he's good and ready.”

“Hopefully he's ready when Leah's developed longer than a five-second attention span,” Eames says, lifting the baby in question out of Arthur's arms. “Hard enough keeping up with this one, and her leading Tommy into trouble all the time.”

“Hear that, Leah?” Ariadne says, while Leah kicks her legs impatiently. “You're a bad influence on your brothers.”

“You should see them when they're changed,” Arthur says, setting Thomas back down. “She beats them both up. She's a bully.”

“Just imagine what she'll be like when she's a teenager,” Ariadne says.

“I'd rather not,” Eames says immediately, hugging Leah tighter to him. Arthur's pretty sure he'll be babying them when they're thirty.

Leah gives up on kicking and lets out a squawk of indignation, and Eames resignedly sets her back down so that she can scoot off again on all fours. Her getaway is cut short at the end of the room by the arrival of Micah, her favourite uncle, who swings her up high to make her shriek.

There's always somebody to look out for them when they're here, Arthur's learned. There's always someone who will have an eye on them, ready to swoop to the rescue at the drop of a hat. He'd noticed it on full moons, first. All the werewolves are exaggeratedly gentle around the cubs, but the sound of an unfamiliar approaching wolf one night had made them all snap to attention at once. Before Arthur's eyes, they had immediately bundled the cubs in a pile and thronged around them while Eames had hurtled straight for the intruder like a silent, deadly juggernaut, with his parents and Micah and half the pack's males on his heels. Eames had half killed the other wolf before realizing it was Faye, rejoining them from over the hills, her black pelt making her difficult to distinguish from the night, and in the morning he'd been all contrition—but for the rest of that night, even Arthur didn't dare go near him, or any of the other wolves for that matter. They take the guarding of their young extremely seriously. Arthur won't doubt them again.

Now, with the rest of Eames' family joining them, it's hard to think of those protective, deadly wolves. They coo and fuss over the babies and there are a dozen concerned pairs of hands reaching for her when Leah starts to cry. Arthur has to jostle his way through the crowd to pick her up, knowing that she's over-dramatizing for the attention.

“You're a diva,” he tells her in the kitchen while he's warming up her bottle. She mouths his shoulder tearfully even while her tiny slip of a tail waves back and forth. (She's in a weird bitey phase right now—he's sure it's the werewolf thing.) He knows he doesn't stand a chance of hiding her away in the kitchen to himself for very long, so he graciously returns to the family and lets Eames' mother feed her, instead.

Eames' father is sitting on the couch, surveying his pack quietly, when Arthur takes a seat next to him and does the same. He's surprised to see Alizé there. Even more surprised to see Faye, whom Micah is making a kindly token effort to engage. Eames has got Will, who is turning shy and tearful. He's bouncing him in his arms and laughing with Ariadne, happy as ever to be home. Arthur can't even see Thomas, but he's not worried.

“Does it feel good to be living in London again?” Eames' father asks at his side, surprising him.

Arthur recovers quickly. “Yeah, it does. It's good for the—babies to be closer to their family.”

Eames' father smiles. Both his hands are resting on his polished wood cane, propped against the floor. He looks—old, suddenly, really old. He hadn't exactly been young, before, but he seems to have aged many years in the time since Arthur met him.

“Does your mother get to see them often?” he asks.

Arthur nods. “She stayed for three months when we were still in Paris. She's visited a couple times since then, too.”

“Good.” Eames' father lowers his head, resting his chin on his chest, as if he's about to fall asleep. “Good. Family is so important.”

Arthur can't think of anything to say to that, so he just nods and watches Ariadne lift Will out of Eames' arms, soothing him lovingly. Yes, he thinks, family is important.

He's good and doesn't say a word while presents are opened, even though a lot of it seems like stuff they don't and will never need. They do receive an enormous triple-stroller which will be handy, but must have cost Eames' parents a small fortune. Leah and Thomas thrill over every toy, but also over every bag and scrap of wrapping paper, while Will, who likes all animals but especially birds, clutches a stuffed owl to him with wide eyes, his tears vanishing.

“Ba,” he says, or at least that's what Arthur hears. Eames is convinced he said “bird” and gets so excited that Will perks up at once and starts saying, “Ba! Ba!”

“What a clever boy!” Eames' mum enthuses, and this seems to be the general consensus. Not to be outdone, Leah screams, and seems satisfied when the adults around her laugh.

They get books and blankets and clothes, and a few superstitious tokens to keep them safe from harm, like a Tau Cross to represent St. Francis of Assisi, who is apparently patron saint of the animals and nature. The gifts don't seem to end, and Will is starting to get upset again under all the attention, so Arthur takes him to the kitchen for a break, and to pour himself a drink. He walks up and down the length of the kitchen to settle the baby, and Will quickly quiets and then falls asleep. Just tired, then. Arthur keeps walking, and brushes his nose against the velvet-softness of Will's ears. He loves their baby-smell.

Socializing is always a drain on Arthur, and he feels about ready to drift off, too, when he hears someone enter the kitchen behind him. He turns just as Faye says, “Kath is pregnant.”

“Who's Kath?” Arthur asks.

“Alizé's mate,” she says. “She's just past the first trimester.”

“Oh. Good for them.”

“Good for them,” says Faye. “Not good for you. Eames' father is too old to keep leading this pack for very long.”

“So Eames will take over,” Arthur says. He's annoyed by her, and doesn't know why. “He has a mate and he has heirs, end of story.”

Faye jabs a finger first at him and then at Will. “Not a real mate. Not a real heir. He's going to say they'll be infertile. He'll say you don't even count as a mate if Eames has never mounted you on a full moon. Werewolves are superstitious, he can make them think it's bad luck to be led by an alpha with an illegitimate mate.”

“How do you know all this?” Arthur demands, scowling, because it's none of the pack's business what he and Eames have or haven't done on a full moon. She shrugs.

“I know Alizé,” she says.

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“Be ready,” she says. “He could kill you, you know, just to goad Eames into a fight. Eames won't fight with him if he doesn't have a reason; he's already got the pack.”

Reflexively, Arthur squeezes Will slightly tighter. “What about them?”

She looks at him like he's crazy. “No werewolf would kill an infant. Not even Alizé.”

That's ... a relief, then, really. Arthur can feel the tension leave him. He's come a long way, he thinks. He could die, sure, but as long as the babies are fine.

Faye turns to leave, and he says, “Why are you telling me this?”

“You know why,” she says. And he does know, of course. Faye hates him. But she loves Eames. That means something, to a werewolf. She'll do anything to keep him from heartache, even if it means losing her chance with him all over again.

 

+

The upside of staying at Eames' parents' house, more than anything else, is that it gives Arthur and Eames the opportunity to have sex; an opportunity which is few and far between these days. In fact, it's become depressingly normal to go entire weeks without any form of sex. At Eames' parents', his mother is happy to take the night shift, and the main guest bedroom is at the other end of the house, nice and far away from the master bedroom. They fuck like they're trying to make up for all that lost time.

When it's been that long, the first round is always fast and hard and ends with them tied together whether they really mean to or not, because Eames just can't really control it when he's that desperate. Even when they do have sex at home they can't tie; not when a baby could start crying and demand their attention at any moment. So they can only do that here, and that means fifteen-or-so minutes of waiting for Eames' knot to go down enough for them to start again; which means, as they're lying there together catching their breath, Arthur casts about for something to talk about and stupidly decides to tell Eames what Faye said.

“That's ridiculous,” Eames says. “Alizé wouldn't kill you. You can't harm a pack member's mate, it's the law.”

“We're talking about him finding a loophole, Eames,” Arthur says. “If his argument is that I'm not a legitimate mate, maybe the law doesn't apply.”

He's surprised to hear the feral sound that rips from Eames, a furious snarl. “It always applies.”

He's angry now, Arthur can smell it. Eames' scent is especially sharp in his nose, in the roof of his mouth when he tastes the air. The full moon is just a couple of days away, and it's already showing.

“We should be ready, anyway,” he says carefully, wishing he'd said nothing now. “There's nothing else we can—”

He breaks off in a startled yelp when Eames is suddenly pressing down on him, teeth fastened under Arthur's jaw almost hard enough to break the skin.

“Eames!” he hisses, shoving at him, even though they can't separate yet. “Eames, fuck off, your whole family will see if you bite me there—”

“Yes,” Eames murmurs, “they will.” He soothes the bite with a few hasty licks, breathing fast. “You're mine. Who else does he think you'd belong to—”

“Eames, we can talk about it in the morning,” Arthur starts, and hisses in a breath when Eames bites him again, slightly lower down Arthur's neck. Eames growls, but it's a sound of contrition, like he just can't help himself and he's sorry. His agitation is a prickling scent in Arthur's nose. Again, he lets go and licks the bite quickly.

He's not clear-headed right now, Arthur knows that. He's set off that old, irrational fear in Eames that he will lose Arthur, that somebody will take him away, and he's restaking his claim on Arthur as best as he knows how. Eames eases himself free of Arthur's body, and they both groan. Arthur can feel against his thigh just how hard Eames still is.

“Mine,” Eames rumbles softly, inhaling Arthur's scent, reaching under the covers to where Arthur is already slick and open and circling with his thumb. Arthur arches away from his touch, and takes Eames' face in both hands.

“Eames, stop,” he says, and at once Eames does, going still and looking at him. Arthur gazes at him steadily. “I'm yours, and I love you, and I'll never be anybody else's. But if you want to have sex now, do it because you love me too. Don't do this because you're angry about what Faye said.”

Eames is frozen on top of him. By now Arthur is hard again, too, wanting to be touched but waiting for Eames to clear his head first.

Then Eames lowers his forehead to Arthur's, exhaling against his face.

“Of course it's because I love you,” he says, sounding surprised, more like himself. Less like the wolf.

“Okay,” Arthur says. “I know.”

Eames buries his face in Arthur's neck, nuzzling gently against the bruises in apology. Arthur can practically hear his frown. “I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't mean to scare you.”

Arthur snorts. “As if you could ever scare me.”

It's half a lie, and slyly, Eames nips at his neck again. Then he slides in, opening Arthur back up. He's slow and careful, all traces of possessive anger gone, and Arthur arches into him this time, sore but eager. He notes, though, even as Eames kisses him thoroughly, that he still smells like anxiety, and he wishes he knew the words to make it better.

 

+

There's a shaded spot near where the werewolves like to gather on the full moon, a sparse strand of trees with a big rock jutting out of the sloped earth. Arthur likes to perch on top of this rock and read using the e-reader app on his tablet while the wolves gambol about in the valley. He'd claimed this rock without realizing that it's right next to Eames' parents' favourite spot, too. They both like to lie down right under the rock, bask in the moonlight and keep a watchful eye on their pack.

They used to, anyway. Arthur is noticing that Eames' father seems to be spending more and more of his time sleeping while his mate keeps watch for both of them. In the moonlight the old wolf's fur is soft-looking and faded, like an old teddy bear. Neither of them seem to begrudge Arthur for invading their space, at least, and the three of them form a peaceful sentry there on the slope.

Arthur is distracted frequently from his tablet by the antics of his children. Leah and Thomas are running around with the other wolves now—in big, flailing puppy-leaps, seemingly unable to coordinate all four legs at the same time, and they don't go very fast. Eames keeps pace with them in an easy lope, chasing and tumbling them until they round on him, bite at him and pull him down so they can climb all over him, and he goes easily, all too willing to be a lupine jungle-gym for his cubs. Even Will joins in when they gang up on Eames, moving shakily about in cautious, exaggerated steps. Eames is extra gentle with him.

Leah only has so much attention span, however, and before long she's tumbling down to target some other wolf. Almost everyone engages her playfully, dropping onto their forelegs like pups and rolling over when she jumps on them. Thomas inevitably follows her, while Will stays snuggled up against Eames, who licks him reassuringly. Arthur can't suppress a fond smile.

Now and then Leah goes careening off for the hills, but there's always someone to catch her up and gently herd her back to the bulk of the pack. Eventually she goes bounding off in Arthur's direction. He sets down his tablet and slides off the rock, in case she wants him, but she veers off and runs at her grandmother instead—stepping on grandfather's muzzle on the way. Arthur makes a sharp, concerned sound as the alpha startles awake, but when he lays eyes on Leah, he softens visibly. He reaches out and bats her with a gentle, padded paw, and when she turns excitedly and jumps on him, he rolls onto his side gamely. Thomas is there in another second to pile on the old alpha as well, tugging his mane fiercely while Leah chews his ear, and Arthur almost wants to intervene, in case they hurt him, but—the old wolf looks so happy. He bundles them away with his forepaws, and lets his tongue loll out sideways when they come bouncing back to fasten their little teeth in him determinedly.

When Thomas notices Arthur sitting there, he peels away from his grandfather and climbs clumsily into Arthur's lap for a cuddle. Seeing this, Leah, too, makes straight for Arthur, but she jumps on him and sinks her sharp little teeth into his arm.

“Ow!” Arthur lifts her, frowning. “You're supposed to be learning bite inhibition.”

She wriggles, and bites him again when he puts her down. And Arthur doesn't like to think of himself as a sissy, because he's got a damn good threshold for pain, but—well, it _hurts_. He's got raised welts all over his arms from scuffling with the babies when they're changed—which Eames says they won't start really regulating for another year or so, but at least their bite isn't anywhere near potent yet. Leah chomps him happily and steps all over Thomas as she does, her tail wagging, and there's not very much Arthur can do about it until Eames' mother gets up to save him and scoops the excitable cub away by the scruff of her neck. He rubs at his arms ruefully.

“She must drive you crazy,” he says to Thomas, who peers up at him lovingly. But in another minute Thomas leaves his lap to start wrestling with Leah, and they tumble down the slope together in a wriggling, squeaking ball of fur. Maybe not.

Arthur has just returned to his rock perch when another wolf comes racing out of the dark and runs straight into Eames' father, who has already settled back down to sleep. The running wolf trips, and for a second the two of them are tangled in a snarling, writhing blur like a vicious parody of the two playing cubs. Then they fall apart, and Arthur realizes that the other wolf, rich brown in colour, is Alizé—standing before the alpha wolf with a cockily raised tail, growling as though to challenge his uncle for daring to lie in his path.

The other wolves start to turn and look, attracted by the sound of the scuffle, and Arthur realizes then what Alizé is doing. He's challenging the alpha in front of the entire pack. Eames has explained to Arthur in the past that there are lots of alphas who run their packs based on their strength—mainly, packs that live in high-density areas and have to compete with other packs for territory. Earlier in his life, Eames' father had fought and won the right from his older brother to lead the pack, though it had left him permanently crippled; and he's never had to fight since then. They're a quiet pack, as Eames puts it, who don't invite trouble, and their alphas serve a more guiding role than guardian.

Still, this is a challenge no alpha could refuse. Even Arthur knows that, and he simmers with fury. So this is how Alizé is going to do it. He isn't going to attack Arthur at all—he's going to shame his own alpha in front of the entire pack.

Eames' father's fleeting look of confusion is almost painful to see. Then—realizing the other wolves are all watching them, now—he levers himself up carefully onto his three good legs, and bares his teeth at Alizé. There are disapproving rumbles from the wolves when Alizé makes no move to back down, although nobody intervenes.

For a moment the two male wolves hackle and growl, circling a bit to keep their shoulders to each other. In the valley, Eames gets up, leaving Will on the ground, and begins to lope across the grass, but before he can get there, Alizé raises a broad paw and cuffs the alpha mightily, slapping his head down. Alizé's gripping claws leave a bleeding slice right down the bridge of his muzzle, and again, the momentary confusion in the old wolf's face is painful—like he isn't sure what's happening or how he's supposed to react to it.

Then Eames is there. He drives straight into Alizé from the side, seizing a mouthful of mane, and drags him away, snarling. Wolves scatter. Leah and Thomas, still playing in their path, are grabbed up swiftly by Micah and his mate. Kath is the closest wolf to Will, and she scoops him up without a moment's hesitation to carry him away. All at once a space has been cleared for the combatants, and they waste no time on posturing. First blood has been drawn and Eames is furious about it. They claw and batter and snap at each other in a vicious whirlwind of teeth and fur.

Arthur hesitates long enough to check on Eames' father, whose face is being carefully tended by his mate's soothing tongue, before he gets off his rock and moves closer. He hates how useless this makes him feel. It's always him and Eames in a fight, watching each other's backs; that's the way it has _always_ been. He hadn't even brought a knife or anything with which he might have helped Eames. But of course, he remembers a moment later, this is a fight Eames has to win on his own—however little Arthur likes it.

And Eames seems to be winning. He overwhelms Alizé with brute force, pushing and driving him around so that Alizé is constantly on the defensive. They've laid open wounds on each other's faces and shoulders in no time, dripping blood, but neither is able to gain a good hold on the other's mane or throat. The last time Arthur had seen them fight, it was Eames who had been seemingly overwhelmed. But he had been exhausted then. Now they're fighting fairly, and Arthur's heart thrills with every blow Eames lands.

The cubs have been ushered outside the ring of spectators, and it's Arthur who notices Thomas first, squirming his way through to his father curiously and tumbling out into the makeshift arena. Arthur starts to push forward, stops when he smells the high tempers all around him, and shouts desperately, “Stop!”

And to his great surprise, they do. Both wolves notice Thomas at the same time and disengage, licking their lips swiftly and backing apart a safe distance. Arthur watches in astonishment as they both wait for another wolf to quietly slink forward and remove Thomas. Only once the cub has been carried away do they both get back to their feet to resume the fight, and Alizé takes immediate advantage of the moment's distraction, surging forward with all his weight to bowl Eames right off his feet and seize him by the throat, but he has to let go when Eames pummels him with his clawed hind feet. When Eames gets up, though, he's bleeding heavily.

Heart in his throat, Arthur scours the crowd of wolves and spots the she-wolf carrying Thomas out onto the grass, where she puts him down. Arthur is there to pick him up quickly, giving him a tight squeeze just to reassure himself, then casts about for help. Eames' mother is still tending to her mate. His gaze lands on a wolf sitting apart from the others—one who never seems to be taken over by wolfish instincts, whose copper eyes always shine with the same shrewd human intelligence: the one wolf who will grasp the urgency of his request right away and not be distracted. He goes to Faye.

“Can you watch him?” he asks.

She blinks at him coolly. Then her gaze lowers to the wriggling bundle in Arthur's arms. Half closing her eyes, she dips her muzzle in a nod, an oddly human gesture to see on a wolf, and Arthur sets Thomas down at her feet. She raises a paw absently, and hesitates before she tucks Thomas a little closer against her body, the way a she-wolf would do with her own cub.

Arthur returns to the pack, scouring the crowd with his eyes while he sifts through all their scents. That's how he finds Will, curled up in a frightened ball between two she-wolves. He purrs when Arthur lifts him—an expression of fear, rather than contentment. Perhaps he can smell Eames' blood.

Faye is still with Thomas when he rejoins her, watching the cub curiously rather than the fight. He puts Will with her, too, and the smaller cub whimpers, looking for Arthur.

“I just have to find Leah,” Arthur says quickly, and he leaves again.

Eames and Alizé are still fighting. Eames is beginning to flag. He's lost a lot of blood: Arthur can smell it, sharp salt and iron in the air, turning his stomach. Alizé knows he's slowing down, and presses his advantage ruthlessly. For a second Arthur is caught up in their fight, a sick knot settling in his stomach. For the first time he starts to wonder how far Alizé will go. Will he forget himself, drunk on the smell of blood, and actually kill Eames? He can't, of course, it's not allowed—but there's a manic light in his eyes that shines the more Eames bleeds, the slower he becomes. The werewolves are whining, jostling amongst themselves, obviously growing uneasy.

Arthur gives himself a quick shake and sets to locating Leah. She would be the most difficult, of course. Maybe she's already gone galloping off across the valley. But he can't see her, and she wouldn't have gotten that far, surely. More likely she's off looking for trouble somewhere—or if not for trouble, then for one of them, for attention—

Then he sees her, the little cinnamon-coloured blur headed straight for her beloved daddy, for Eames, in the middle of all those wolves, wanting to join the game. The two males are on their hind legs, snapping at each other's shoulders, clawing, and Eames thrusts his cousin away with a twist of his forelegs. Alizé lands almost on top of Leah, on his side, vulnerable; and just as Eames gathers himself to lunge and end the battle, Alizé shunts Leah in front of him, knocking her over.

Arthur is pushing his way through the wolves without even thinking about it, ignoring the startled snaps. But suddenly the wolves stop snapping, all transfixed by the sight in front of them. Eames' belly hits the soft grass with a _flump_. He twists as fast as he can to show his throat. He's submitting. Surrendering.

Then Arthur breaks through, _furious_ that Alizé would use one of their children like this, almost literally seeing red. Very distantly, he hears Faye's faint bark of warning and Eames' distressed whine. Alizé turns to face him just as he swoops down and grabs Leah up with one arm, and the werewolf lunges for him with a snarl. Arthur strikes him across the muzzle, as hard as he can, splitting one of his knuckles on Alizé's serrated canine. Alizé's jaws snap together, and for a second he looks almost comically bewildered. Then he leaps forward just as Arthur starts to retreat. Arthur throws his arm up defensively and Alizé's jaws snap shut around his forearm.

The force of his bite knocks Arthur flat on his tail, makes him squeeze Leah even tighter until she squeaks. Alizé bowls him over backward, still biting down steadily until Arthur can feel his teeth grinding bone. Blood wells up around Alizé's jaws, and Arthur, gasping, knows the bite force of a fully-grown werewolf, knows very well that to a predator who kills by crushing skills or spinal cords, a human arm is nothing—

And then Eames arrives, snarling terribly, sending them all spilling over the ground and making Leah squeak again. His teeth meet in the base of Alizé's ear and without preamble he rips it from Alizé's skull. Alizé wrenches his jaws free of Arthur's arm, screaming, and Arthur catches a glimpse of the blood-red sclera of Eames' eyes before he lunges one last time and closes his jaws around Alizé's neck, just where the mane is thinnest. He literally drags him away. Alizé falls to his elbows even while Eames is hauling him over the grass and he puts down his tail, beaten. Eames lets go and smacks him across the face, leaving a deep scrape, a dismissal if Arthur ever saw one. With a last growl, Alizé bounds away.

But it's too late. Arthur can feel Alizé's bite starting to work, seeping into his veins.

He's still sitting flat on the ground, and he suddenly realizes how tightly he's gripping Leah in his good arm. She's wiggling and squeaking indignantly. He sets her down, and blinks black spots out of his eyes. In retrospect, hitting Alizé had been pretty stupid. Should have just grabbed Leah and gotten out of there. He peels back his sleeve, hissing, to take a look at the damage, but he can't see past all the blood. His vision swims.

Eames flops down in front of him. Arthur stiffens, but can see almost at once that Eames' hackles are down now, however encrusted with blood, and the red is fading from his eyes. He touches his nose to Arthur's arm, concerned. Then he starts to lick at the wound with long, steady strokes of his tongue. Arthur shuts his eyes, waiting for it to hurt, but it feels ... cool, and good. The wolves are all milling around now, and there are a couple around Eames, licking his wounds for him while he's licking Arthur's.

“Good job,” Arthur says thickly, and Eames' tail thumps the ground absently. He means it. Eames took a risk for Arthur, but not for Leah. It's the same thing Arthur would have done. “I think I need to go to the hospital,” he adds, and the words slur together slightly.

He forces himself to his feet. If he can get to the house, he can get Ariadne to drive him to the nearest hospital. Eames follows him. He's still dripping blood. The smell, pungent and werewolf, makes Arthur want to throw up.

“Go,” Arthur says. “I'll be fine. Stay with the babies.”

At that last word, Eames looks over his shoulder. Some of the she-wolves have bullied Faye away and are licking the startled cubs reassuringly. He looks back at Arthur.

“Go,” Arthur repeats, trying to push himself on. The pain is unbelievable. It's like fire in his nerves, scalding and creeping its way inexorably down to his fingertips, up to his shoulder, spreading slowly but surely. The black spots are taking over his vision. He ends up on his knees and has to struggle upright, and Eames is there, pulling at his coat.

His stubbornness to follow, and his determined control over himself, makes Arthur force himself on. They're not terribly far from the house. He can get there before he collapses, maybe. Is this what becoming a werewolf feels like? He can't be turning, he can't be, but what else could feel like this? The fire in his arm eclipses all his other senses. Is this what Faye felt like, nine years old and defenseless, when Alizé turned her?

He keeps falling, getting up, sometimes holding Eames for support. Either he's turning or he's dying. He's sure of it. No torture ever felt as bad as this. He wants to turn around. He wants to hold his babies again. He thinks he might be crying. Crying, because he might never see them again.

The house is in sight when he falls and can't get up again. He stares up at the stars, the whirling black locusts, and it takes him a moment to realize Eames has got him by the coat and is dragging him the last part of the way. He wants to say something, to tell him to stop, maybe, but the words would mean nothing to the wolf, and he can't speak anyway. The black encompasses him with surprising softness, like sinking into a warm bed.

 

+

The next time he wakes up, lucid, he's in a hospital bed. Ariadne, curled in a chair in the corner and reading a magazine, looks up.

“Hey,” she says. “Welcome back.”

There are so many wires in him. Why so many wires? He pulls his arm in slightly, stretching them, but they don't come out.

Eames is in the room suddenly, his eyes bloodshot and bruised, hinting at a long period of sleeplessness. He walks straight to Arthur's bed, clasps his face and kisses his forehead.

“You're back,” he says, drawing away just to take Arthur in.

“Where'd I go?” Arthur asks groggily. “Where are the babies?”

“Home,” says Eames. “They're fine. We've all been worried about you.”

“Why?”

They get a doctor to explain to him, using all the medical terms, and half of it goes over Arthur's head, because he's still groggy and feverish. He listens, eyes glazed over, and then makes Ariadne and Eames repeat it when the doctor's gone and he's more awake and has had a chance to check his totem.

“The good news is you didn't turn,” Ariadne says, “and you didn't die of blood loss, and you could have.”

“Werewolf saliva,” Eames says, self-conscious. “It helps the blood to clot, that's why I was licking. But I ended up making it worse.”

Werewolf contagion and Arthur's species apparently don't mix. In fact, they so repel each other that Arthur's body had progressed with frightening swiftness from infection to severe inflammatory response to septic shock. The doctors gave him a thirty percent chance.

“Of dying?” Arthur asks.

“Of living,” Eames corrects.

It's a reaction that has been observed before, namely in exceptionally healthy adults, but the doctors also told Eames they'd never heard of a case this severe or rapid. They told him the odds of Arthur making it were fairly slim. At that point, Eames told them, “Yeah? Well, you don't know Arthur. You've got no idea what he can take.”

“Did you really say that?” Arthur asks.

“Well,” Eames says, sheepish, “Ariadne certainly did. I was trying not to lose it.” He takes Arthur's hand and kisses it. “Anyway, at least you've answered the timeless question of what happens when a catperson gets bitten by a werewolf. The answer is an uncontrolled hurricane of immune cell production. Apparently your body is so resistent to infectious werewolf pathogens you went into hypercyto—well—they had a term for it.”

“But,” Arthur says, still woozy, “I've had, um ... werewolf pathogens ... in me before.”

“Not infectious ones. Just lots and lots of semen.”

“Ugh,” Ariadne says, from the corner.

Eames smirks over his shoulder at her. Then he turns back to Arthur, who is probably the only person in the world who can see right through him. He can tell how shaken Eames really is.

“You've got to stop doing this to me, Arthur,” he whispers, with a false, wavering smile. He kisses the back of Arthur's hand again. “Every time you go into the hospital I don't know if you're coming out.”

Arthur laces his fingers with Eames', weakly. “I'll always come back to you,” he says.

 

+

It's Ariadne who tells him what happened with the pack the morning after the full moon, when Eames leaves the room to get coffee.

“That big guy, Alizé, went begging to Eames' parents. Really groveling. He said he'd just lost control, and Eames' dad told him to learn how to control himself or find a new pack. He wasn't really mean about it, though. I think they went too easy on him. His ear didn't grow back, though, and he looked like shit. He must've really taken a beating. I wish I'd seen it.”

“No, you don't,” says Arthur. “What did Eames say?”

“Nothing,” says Ariadne. “He just stood there and waited till his parents had left. Then he told me to go upstairs—I watched from my window—and he hauled Alizé outside and beat the _shit_ out of him. You should've seen him, Arthur. I thought he'd kill the guy. Then Eames said that if you died, he would kill Alizé, and he left him there.”

It's been so long since Arthur has seen that cold, brutal side of Eames that he'd almost forgotten it's one of his favourite things about him. Picturing that scene sends a pleasant shiver all the way down to his tailtip. The septicemia is almost worth it.

He's obviously not feeling too kindly disposed toward Alizé either. His arm is broken, literally cracked between the werewolf's teeth. He'd gotten dangerously close to organ failure and he's not even out of the woods yet, won't be for a very long time. That's what the doctors say, anyway. Arthur has a higher estimation of himself. By the end of the week he's just itching to get back to Eames' parents' house and see his children again.

“Not that I'm going to thank you for doing what you did,” Eames tells him in the car when he finally gets to take Arthur home. “But you did help me out back there.”

“When she's a bratty teenager we can tell Leah about the time she almost cost you the pack,” Arthur says.

“And you your arm.” Eames glances over at Arthur's cast, shaking his head. “You took on a changed werewolf. You terrify me, do you know that?”

“I know.”

Eames sighs, and says, “You'll have a scar to match Faye's. Although he nearly took her whole arm off, when he turned her.”

“I can't believe nothing happened to him for that,” Arthur says, disgusted.

“We don't like police interference in pack matters,” Eames says, though he sounds apologetic. “They won't do anything in your case either; you were on clearly marked pack land on a full moon and you provoked him.”

“Is Faye around?” Arthur asks. He wants to thank her. He wonders, vaguely, if she's disappointed that he didn't die. Eames shakes his head.

“Gone. She's got a job, I'm sure. She only likes to hang around here on full moons.”

Eames helps him upstairs, once they get to the house, and tucks him into bed. All the medications Arthur is on make him drowsy.

“Where are my babies?” he asks tiredly.

“Leah and Will went for a walk in their spiffy new pram with their Gran. Tommy's still asleep. My dad's minding him.”

“I want him,” Arthur says. He's already half out, though, and doesn't hear Eames' reply. Eames leaves, then, and Arthur dozes for a few minutes. Until Eames walks back in, holding an equally sleepy Thomas.

“Someone's missed you,” Eames says.

Arthur smiles, lifting his good arm automatically to take Thomas from Eames. Thomas is yawning, rubbing at his eyes with a scrunched fist, but as soon as he sees Arthur he kicks his legs and yells, “Dadada!”

“That's right, that's your dadada.” Eames deposits him on Arthur's chest. “Now give him a big kiss.”

Thomas obligingly smushes his open mouth against Arthur's cheek. Arthur grimaces and wipes off his face.

“Still better than being licked by Leah,” he says. “How's your dad?”

Eames is silent. He lies down carefully next to Arthur, and Arthur sets Thomas between them, so he can go back to sleep. Finally, Eames says, “Mum says we can stay as long as we need to. But if you want to go back to London ...”

“We can stay,” Arthur says. “How is your dad?” he repeats.

Eames sighs. “They want me to take over,” he says, in a low voice.

“I figured.”

“I told them I can't, I ... we live in London, and the pack's doing just fine, but ... Arthur, I don't know how much longer my dad's got,” he says, and he sounds a bit choked. Thomas reaches for his face, sleepy but curious, grabbing at his chin, and Eames folds Thomas' tiny hand in his own. “He just seems so ...”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I know.”

“But my mum can handle things, and she's got Micah, and if you don't want to stay then we don't have to. I don't have to do anything yet.”

Eames is an alpha, but that doesn't make him ambitious, like Alizé. Maybe in another pack, it would, but here he only has to obey his parents, and that's the most natural state in the world for a wolf to exist in. Arthur can see that he doesn't want this, would prefer anything but this, anything but to acknowledge that his father is no longer the powerful guiding figure he used to be. And Arthur knows, only from long practice, what to say.

“I'll stay with you whatever you choose,” he tells Eames.

“Thank you,” Eames says, after a moment. He rolls onto his side, careful not to squash Thomas, and gives Arthur a kiss. Then he kisses Thomas, too. “He'll be the next alpha, you know.”

“Not if he never learns to stand up to Leah,” says Arthur. Eames laughs.

“God, what a little terror of an alpha she would be,” he says fondly. Then he quiets. “One day she'll be a good beta. But he'll be the alpha.”

“How do you know? They're only one.”

“I can tell,” Eames says simply.

Arthur thinks about that. He thinks about them growing up in the pack, right here, surrounded by family, like he never was. Then, because it's been bugging him, he asks, “Do you think anyone else feels like Alizé? Like it's bad luck, that I'm your mate?”

“No,” Eames says, smiling. “You gave me babies—heirs. That's a sign if nothing else is.” He sobers suddenly. “If he ever has a go at you again—”

“Think of all the people who want me dead, Eames,” Arthur interrupts him tiredly. “Do you really think I'd ever let _Alizé_ off me?”

“Good point,” Eames allows.

“I'll be fine. We'll all be fine. I'll take a gun or a knife with me in future.”

Eames tenses, and Arthur knows he's correctly assumed that Eames would rather keep him far away from any changed werewolf for the rest of his life. He turns his head to look at Eames, and says quietly, “I want to be there, Eames. I want to be a part of your pack.”

Eames starts to smile, slowly, before schooling himself. “Well,” he says, “even if you weren't before, you technically are now.” He touches Arthur's cast. “Although perhaps we should work on legitimizing you some more, for good measure?”

“Fuck off,” Arthur laughs, and Eames covers Thomas' little ears, even though he's already asleep, pretending to look scandalized.

“Get to sleep, you terrible influence,” he says. At that, Arthur yawns, and it shudders through him all the way down to his tailtip. Eames smiles fondly and leans over to kiss him. “I'll protect you.”

“I know you will,” Arthur says, closing his eyes and choosing not to fight that, because he does know. Eames has got his back, just like Arthur's got his. They always will.


End file.
